“I am afraid that settles it,” he said in tones compounded of a mixture of emotions. “I wonder if ever I’ll have the good luck to meet you again?”
This remark pulled Prudence up sharply. She had never considered the question of his going out of her life; the suggestion thus forced on her unwilling attention hurt. Abruptly the knowledge came to her that she did not wish to lose his friendship. She had not considered the matter of his going away seriously: she had taken it for granted that the business that had brought him to Wortheton would bring him again; no doubt had crossed her mind as to a further meeting—now that the doubt was implanted a vague distress seized her, bringing with it a sense of desolation. She realised that when he was gone she would miss him, would feel doubly lonely by comparison with this bright break in the monotony of her life.
“You’ll come again?” she said quickly.
“It’s possible,” he answered, “but not in the least likely. It was just a chance that brought me this time. The firm sends a more important man as a rule. If I come again you will soon know of it. I shall make my first appearance under your window. In the meanwhile you will quite possibly have forgotten my existence.”
“Amid the distractions of Wortheton!” Prudence retorted. “That’s very probable, isn’t it?”
He laughed.
“I won’t hear a word against Wortheton if it keeps your memory green,” he returned.
“It fossilises memory,” she answered. “Every little event that has ever befallen is stamped on my mind in indelible colours—drab colours for the unpleasant event, and brighter tints for the pleasant in comparison with their different degrees of agreeableness.”
“And this event?” he questioned. “These stolen moments? In what colour is this event painted?”
“I’ll tell you that when we meet again—perhaps,” she answered.