Gheena, a little shaken and upset, gave him tea in the school-room. One cannot snub a man who has hidden with you in an oat-loft. They talked and laughed with the same new friendliness, Stafford telling her of his years abroad, of Italy, of France, and then of Germany. The cloud came suddenly into Gheena's eyes.
"You were there for years, weren't you?" she said.
"For some months," he answered absently; "in Berlin. I knew some nice men there too."
"Whom you would not care to fight against now, I suppose?" Gheena muttered half to herself. "Oh, if there was only no war!" she flashed out, "and no economy, and no black oats, and wounded people and things!"
Basil said gravely that it would be a far better arrangement. He saw the cloud which had risen up.
"And—there being a war—we cannot be friends," he said slowly, coming to the mantelshelf, looking hard at Gheena.
Gheena felt a very hot flush being succeeded by pallor as she replied that one could not be friends with someone one could not understand.
Mr. Stafford said, "Or—anything else except friends," still keeping close to her.
"Gheena, a little bird whispered to me that you were home. They saw you coming, and I've news for you. Oh, Mr. Stafford!" Violet Weston pushed open the door, her golden head gleaming, her shoes of purple suede pinching her so that she limped.
"And the news?" Basil asked softly.