He was silent. His eyes were fixed upon the tall chimneys and smoky clouds which hung over the city. The girl was picking grass and throwing it away. Her hand met his, sought his touch—and Strone, so unused to anything of the sort, was embarrassed, and clumsily removed it.
She rose up at once.
“You don’t want me here any longer,” she said. “I’m off.”
He stopped her.
“Why, what’s the matter, Milly?” he exclaimed. “You have not had your tea yet.”
“I don’t want any tea.”
She stood with her back turned to him. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that she was crying.
“What nonsense,” he said. “Sit down while I see about it.”
“I don’t want any,” she repeated. “I’m sorry I came. I’m sorry I ever saw you. I’m off!”
She started down the turf walk, pushing her dusty old bicycle. Strone groaned to himself as he followed in pursuit. He caught her by the gate, touched her arm. She shook herself free.