Suddenly Michael awoke to the fact of her presence, and abruptly he moved away from her.
“Thanks, Sylvia,” he said. “I know I have your—your good wishes. But—well, I am sure you understand.”
She understood perfectly well. And the understanding of it cut her to the quick.
“Have you got any right to behave like that to me, Michael?” she asked. “What have I done that you should treat me quite like that?”
He looked at her, completely recalled in mind to her alone. All the hopes and desires of the autumn smote him with encompassing blows.
“Yes, every right,” he said. “I wasn’t heeding you. I only thought of my mother, and the fact that there was a very dear friend by me. And then I came to myself: I remembered who the friend was.”
They stood there in silence, apart, for a moment. Then Michael came closer. The desire for human sympathy, and that the sympathy he most longed for, gripped him again.
“I’m a brute,” he said. “It was awfully nice of you to—to offer me that. I accept it so gladly. I’m wretchedly anxious.”
He looked up at her.
“Take my arm again,” he said.