“Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked.
He walked beside her in silence. What could he say? But how was it possible not to tell her?
They had turned towards the sunset and came now to the bridge. She was looking at him, with solicitude. He stopped before they crossed.
“I must say something to you,” broke from him. “I must. I can’t go away without your knowing—my shame—my unutterable remorse.”
She looked at him with the look he knew so well. Kindly, firmly, if with anxiety, she prepared to hear him thrust some new torment upon her.
“Shame? Remorse?” she murmured.
“About my poems. About my griefs. What I’ve said to you. What I’ve given you to bear. I thought I’d borne so much. I thought you unfeeling, without experience. I thought I’d been set apart—that all of us had been set apart, who suffered in the war. Stop me at once if you won’t hear it from me. But your father told me, just now, about your husband’s death.”
She became very pale. She looked away from him, but she said nothing.
“That’s all,” said Guy after a long silence. He saw that there was nothing more to tell her. She had understood.
“Let us walk up and down,” said Mrs. Baldwin.