‘He was fat and mottled like a toad,’ she said pleadingly. ‘He was Sir John’s, my father’s, shipping-agent.’
He conned her queerly, and a little sadly.
‘Your father’s, Joan? Do you still say so?’
‘Why should I not?’ she answered, wondering. ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Joan, do you remember that first day we met in the beautiful glen?’
‘Yes, Brion.’
‘And you said, as we parted, that I had guessed your secret.’
‘Brion, I never did. I remember every word. I said “Have you guessed my secret?” Which was not to say you had.’
‘That is but a quibble, after all. Why would you not be candid with me?’
She dropped her lids, plucking at the blades of grass, in a way which recalled, O, so pathetically, the sorrow of an earlier day.