"Well, Monica saw us and got home before me and told her, and she was worried at what people would think. What would they think?"
Guy looked at her: then he shook his fist at the sky.
"Oh, God, why must people try...."
She touched his arm.
"Guy, don't swear. At least not ... you'll call me superstitious and foolish," she murmured dismayfully, "but really it hurts me to hear you say that."
"I don't think you anything but the most lovely and perfect thing on earth," he vowed passionately. "And it drives me mad that people should try to spoil your naturalness ... but still ... it was thoughtless of me."
"But why, why?" she asked. "That's the word Mother used about you. Only, why, why? Why shouldn't I go and say good-night?"
"Dear, there was no harm in that. But you see, village people might say horrid things.... I was dreadfully to blame. Yes, of course I was."
She flushed like a carnation at dawn; and when Guy put his arms round her, she drew away.
"Oh, Guy," she said brokenly. "I can't bear to think of being alone to-night. I shall be asking questions all the night long, I know I shall. It's like that horrid mill-pool."