Presently he made her walk, afraid of the sunless spring afternoon for her.
"Where are you going to, when you leave?" he asked her.
"London, I suppose. I can get another post there and this won't affect my references," she answered, unconsciously using Alderman Bellew's phrase.
"Let me know if there is anything that I can do for you," said Sir Julian rather hopelessly, neither thinking that there was likely to be anything that he could do, nor that there was much probability of her applying to him.
She made reply with candour.
"I think you've done everything that you can do, Sir Julian. I'm—I'm not trying to thank you. Will you leave me here, when you go back?"
"I can take you to the farm, or wherever you want to go."
"I would rather stay here a little while longer, by myself. Then I shall be all right," she said, like a child.
He left her.
"Perhaps," said Sir Julian to himself, as he climbed the sand slopes with long strides, "perhaps I ought to have said 'Good-bye,' or 'Remember' or 'God bless you,' or something like that to her. But whatever the rights or the wrongs of her point of view, her sincerity is worthy of respect. And I will mock her unhappiness with no catchwords, poor child."