"No," Paul admitted, with unwonted and seemingly unnecessary sternness.
"Well," she remarked, not knowing whether to be more hurt or surprised, "I—I think you might."
"You know I wish you everything the world has to give—all good and all blessings," Paul broke out, a marked fervour in his tone, and paused.
"Yes?" Hazel asked, a little breathless, with a sense of being somewhat overpowered.
"As to gifts," Paul went on desperately, "I would come with my arms full—I would lay all I had at——" He broke off, and with an effort seemed to pull himself together.
"You need not make such a lot of it," Hazel expostulated, in innocent surprise. "It is not a twenty-first, or anything so important as that. And even if it were, I should only expect, supposing you wished to give me anything at all, that is, I should only expect one present; just a small remembrance, you know, the—the usual thing."
"There is no usual——" He stopped short and endeavoured to recover himself. "Hazel," he said quietly, "you have not thought the omission due to carelessness, or doubted my—my friendship?"
"Oh no," Hazel declared, "and I did not think of presents: they never entered my head. And as to the wishes—well, you have wished them now, and thank you very much," she added, somewhat hurriedly, half fearful of a repetition of the very full measure, so fervently expressed. "The rain has stopped. I will start at once."
She left her cloak, at Paul's urgent request, to be dried and returned to her later. She stepped out of the French window and, turning, gave her hand to Paul.
"I am so glad I came and cleared it all up—about Hugh," she said warmly. "Good-bye."