"Andrew," he said, "I can't go!"
There was a short silence. Andrew stood quite still. All around them was the soft weeping of dripping shrubs. An odorous whiff from the walled rose-garden floated down the air.
"I'm sorry, George! It's a lot to ask you, I know."
"It isn't that!"
Andrew turned his head toward his friend. The tone puzzled him.
"I don't understand."
"No wonder, old fellow! I don't understand myself."
There was another short silence. Andrew stood with his almost sightless eyes turned upon his friend, and Duncombe was looking up through the elm trees to the Hall. He was trying to fancy her as she must have appeared to this man who dwelt alone, walking down the meadow in the evening.
"No," he repeated softly, "I don't understand myself. You've known me for a long time, Andrew. You wouldn't write me down as altogether a sentimental ass, would you?"
"I should not, George. I should never even use the word 'sentimental' in connection with you."