He threw the pieces of the switch away into the grass.
"You're going to be married?" he muttered. "You're in love, you're engaged to some one else?"
"No, no, it's not that. Please don't ask me. I'm not engaged to be married."
"You're married already?" He leant forward, bending over her, the words clicking on his tongue.
"No—no—not even that."
"Then, what is it?"
She looked up to his eyes and let him read them. Then he stood upright—slowly stood erect. His cheeks were patched with white, there was a sweat on his forehead. He wiped it off with his hand.
"My God!" he whispered. "You, you? Great God, no!"
He turned, strode a few steps away from her, and stood looking down into the grass. She could hear him muttering. For a little time she waited, head bent, expectant of the sudden bursting of his revolt against the truth. But it never came. His silence was more pregnant with rebuke than speech could ever have been. She bore with it until she thought she had given him full opportunity to rail against her had he wished, then she walked slowly away, the unconquerable sickness in her heart. She walked slowly; but she did not look back. Would he follow her? Would he? Would he? She reached the gap in the hedge. Then she turned her head. He was still standing where she had left him, gazing down into the forest of grass stems.