“No?”
“You don’t either?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But why? What is it?”
“I don’t know. My dear—don’t look so frightened. It may be nothing—almost nothing. Remember, he’s only been back with you for a few days—he’s permeated with the atmosphere of the place he’s left. You’ve got his trust, in the ultimate issue, even if it’s overlaid now by God knows what. He’ll tell you what’s wrong—if anything is wrong—himself.”
Rose leant back in her armchair and he saw that she was trembling.
They were silent for a little while.
At last, as though he had silently made her aware of his anguish of sympathy for her pain, Rose turned towards him again.
“I’m glad you don’t try to pretend that it’s all right, and I’m only imagining things. But, of course, I knew you wouldn’t do that. You always understand,” she said gratefully.
“I think so, where you’re concerned,” he gravely agreed. “Tell me, have you found any other—understanding, on this particular point?”