He made no answer. She glanced up to find him looking at her with an intentness that confused her. She turned away, sat down, and took off her hat. Her hair was loose; she pinned it up as well as she could, but her hands felt unskilful, helpless. She could not free herself from the sense of those deep eyes arraigning, caressing, compelling her. She looked up with a fluttering smile.
"Sit down, and don't stare."
He only leaned back against the opposite elm.
"Yes, there's some other change in you besides the growing prettier. What's happened?"
In the hypersensitized state of her nerves the question hurt keenly. That they should not have met for all this time, and he ask that! It was all she could do to keep the tears out of her lowered eyes.
"Come," he urged, "is some of the gilt worn off your particular piece of gingerbread?"
"No," she said, with recovered firmness; "I've not come to complain. I've only come to be helped to understand."
"Ah, life has pricked you, I see that—and"—he smiled faintly—"you don't understand."
"Yes," she said—the voice was not quite so steady—"I've got hurt. If I'd sat quiet, I wouldn't have bumped myself against sharp corners. But I shall not sit quiet."