“Well...” he said, irresolutely, “I ... we’re too—mature to be very sentimental, aren’t we, Rosaleen?... I mean—we like each other ... we get on well together....”
“How do you know? We’ve never tried.”
“We would, I’m sure.... There’s no use in talking and talking about the thing. We wanted to get married, and now, at last, we can.”
“Perhaps—we don’t want to. Perhaps it’s too late.”
“Nonsense!” he said, brusquely, but horribly without conviction. He had nothing to say, really; he was unable to plead, to argue, even to discuss. Another melancholy shower came down on them, and he rose.
“Better not sit here,” he said. “You’ll be drenched.”
She didn’t answer. He waited a few minutes, then he said, a little impatiently:
“Come! You’d better not sit here!”
He was desperate to escape from this intolerable situation. He bent over to take her by the hand and raise her to her feet, when he observed that she was wiping her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief.