He broke the silence. “Cherry, why do you always avoid touching me? We’re farther apart now than we were—were when we first met. I can’t surprise you any longer by telling you that I love you. And yet—and yet to me it’s still wonderful. Why do you always treat me as though I were nothing?”
“Do I? I don’t mean to.”
He sat down beside her and took her hand. “Shall I go away? If I went away you might learn to miss me.”
She turned toward him gently. “Please, please, Peter, don’t do that.”
“Then you do want me—you would miss me? I never know what you think of me. You never tell me—never betray yourself.”
She let her fingers nestle in his hand. “There’s only one Peter. Of course I’d miss you. I don’t need to tell you that. I like you very much, Peter.”
He looked away across the unheeding country. “Like! Yes, but liking isn’t loving.”
Voices were heard and footsteps approaching. She sat up hurriedly, smoothing out her dress. “I’d so much rather be friends. I’d be such a good little friend to you, Peter, if you’d only be content with that.”
Content with that! He shook his head.
“Cherry, I couldn’t.”