‘And she loves you, Joan?’
‘Not greatly, Brion, I fear. She loves atonement.’
‘For what?’
The girl was silent, hanging her head a little.
‘Ah!’ said Brion. ‘Well, sit thee down.’
She was glad to do so, being more overcome than her looks confessed. They had found a warm grassy hollow, overlooking the Sound, where they could rest and talk without fear of interruption. Joan sat clasping her hands about her knees—a characteristic position which Brion observed with a laughing bliss. He flung himself beside her, and, resting on his elbow, feasted and feasted his starved eyes on all that recovered dearness.
‘You are not changed in the least,’ he said—‘only taller and a little fuller. You are one of those, I think, Joan, who hang at lovely ripeness all their lives.’
A faint pink mantled her cheek. She turned to him with a caressing reproof:—
‘I am a woman now, Brion. It is not right you should speak to me so. And you have grown too, and into a fine man. I think you very handsome.’
‘Do you?’ He laughed. ‘Why don’t you eat your gingerbread?’