"Then don't tell Harry Belfield that. Think it, if you like. Don't tell him."
A look of sheer wonder came into her eyes. "He's like that?" she murmured.
"Yes, like that. That's the trouble. He'd better think you're—hopelessly disgusted."
"I'm hopelessly at sea, anyhow," she said, turning her eyes to the lake again. But she turned back to him quickly, still with her faint smile. "Disgusted? Oh, you're thinking of the fastidiousness? Ah, that seems a long time ago! You were very kind then; you're very kind now." She laid her hand lightly on his arm; for the first time her voice shook. "You and I can sometimes talk about him as he used to be—just we two together!"
"Or as we thought he was?" Andy's tones were blunt still, and now rather bitter.
"Or as we thought he was—and, by thinking it, were so happy! Yes, we'd better not talk about him at all. I don't think I really could. You'll be seeing Mr. Belfield soon? Give him my dear love, and say I'll come and see him and Mrs. Belfield as soon as they want me. He sent me a note this morning. I can't answer it just yet."
"I'll tell him." Andy rose to go.
"Oh, but must you go just yet? I don't want you to." She glanced up at him, with a sad humour. "Curly's out, you know, and terribly big and rampageous!"
"But you're not running away now, any more than you did then."
"I'm trying to stand still, and—and look at it—at what it means about life."