"You don't fit it. I couldn't tire of it, but it'll be—different when you've gone."
She consoled him. "I may not go at once."
"How soon?"
"I don't know."
"Are you really going?" he asked and his look pleaded with her for honesty.
"I shall have to arrange it all with Uncle Alfred."
He straightened himself against the rock, but he said nothing.
"And we're just beginning to be friends," she added sensibly, with the faintest accent of regret.
At that he stirred again, and "No," he said steadily, "that's not true. We're not friends—couldn't be. You think I'm a fool, but I can see you're despising me all the time. I can see that, and I wonder why."
She caught her lip. "Well, George," she began, and thought quickly. "I have heard dreadful stories about you. You can't expect me to be—not to be careful with you."