There was a moment’s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him.
“Good-bye,” she continued. “You will have a letter from me—I am going back to Swanage tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“Good-bye, and it’s you I thank.”
“I may order the motor round, mayn’t I?”
“That would be most kind.”
“I wish I had written instead. Ought I to have written?”
“Not at all.”
“There’s just one question—”
She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered, and they parted.