“Surrey was worse than East London,” she said.
“I didn’t know how much of a strain it had been until I got away from it.”
“One saw it all in your face.”
“‘One’ meaning a clever Eppie, I suppose. But, yes, I had a bad moment there.”
The memory of that heave of sod had no place in fairy-land, even less place than the forecast of an Eppie married to Jim Grainger, and he didn’t let his thought dwell on it even when he owned to the bad moment, and he was thinking, really with amusement over her unconsciousness, of the two means of escape from it that he had found to his hand,—the pistol and her letter,—when she took up his words with a quiet, “Yes, I knew you had.”
“Knew that I had had a strain, you mean?”
“No, had a bad moment,” she answered.
“You saw it in my face?”
“No. I knew. Before I saw you.”
He smiled at her. “You have a clairvoyant streak in your Scotch blood?”