"Oh yes, but I really think..."
"So do I, but it seems our friend here has made up his mind. Rather a sad ending to our picnic, Graeme;" but the latter was already on his way to the tent, where he found Lucy lying face downwards on her bed, quietly sobbing.
At the sight, a sudden spasm of remorse seized Hector; tears were a rare occurrence with Lucy. He knelt down beside her and tried to take her hand.
"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he began, "and I'm afraid I've been beastly selfish, but I'm afraid in the excitement I never thought of that. I can see now it's devilish hard on you, and I wish, I do indeed, I hadn't to go; but I must; you see that, don't you, dear?"
No answer but sobs.
Hector was nonplussed. He could make love as well as most men—perhaps even better—but in the capacity to feel the sorrows of others his nature was altogether lacking, and he knew no other way to dry a woman's tears save with kisses. Such grief merely bored and annoyed him, and, as he looked at the stricken figure before him, in spite of himself a faint feeling of grievance began to take possession of him.
"Come, Lucy," he said, trying to make his voice as gentle as he could. "Pull yourself together, dear; after all, you are more to blame for this than me."
"I, Hector, oh, how?"
"For not letting me cut the Service when I wanted to. You see now what has come of it."
"Oh, how I wish I had, but I only did it for your sake, Hector."