Constance said nothing for a moment, but she tapped the toe of her shoe rather impatiently with her parasol.
“You would not have landed here if you had thought that there was a possibility of meeting me, would you?”
The question was rather an embarrassing one and was put with great directness. It seemed to George that the air was full of such questions just now. He considered that his answer might entail serious consequences and he hesitated several seconds before speaking.
“It seems to me,” he answered at last, “that although I have but little reason to seek a meeting with you, I have none whatever for avoiding one.”
“I hope not, indeed,” said Constance, in a low voice. “I hope you will never try to avoid me.”
“I have never done so.”
“I think you have,” said the young girl, not looking at him. “I think you have been unkind in never taking the trouble to come and see us during all these months. Why have you never crossed the river?”
“Did you expect that after what has passed between us I should continue to make regular visits?” George spoke earnestly, without raising or lowering his tone, and waited for an answer. It came with some hesitation.
“I thought that—after a time, perhaps, you would come now and then. I hoped so. I cannot see why you should not, I am sure. Are we enemies, you and I? Are we never to be friends again?”
“Friendship is a relation I do not understand,” George answered. “I think I said as much the other day when you mentioned the subject.”