"I don't know what to say, Gil." She moved closer to him. "I've had a wonderful time—you know that. I want to thank you for it. You've been awfully kind to us."
"Having you here is all the thanks I want," he answered. He had everything snugly packed now.
"I'm glad we happened to meet again. Though it does seem strange, doesn't it, that we should run across each other after all these years!"
He stood up straight. "All these years! You talk as if you were a hundred!" And he tried to smile.
"I am—nearly," she laughed. "I'm twenty-four, you know."
"Really? It doesn't seem possible!"
"I was eighteen when you went away. And that's nearly six years ago. Time flies, doesn't it?" She smiled at her bromidic remark, and sat down; but he did not reply, "Gil," she said at last. He looked up. "Why didn't you come to see me before I went away?"
"I don't know. I suppose—"
"You went away from Maine without my knowing—without even coming to say good-bye. Was that fair, was that the thing for a man like you to do?"