Instead of speaking on any subject of interest to either, he rambled into a confused account of his adventures with various dogs and other animals during his first attempts at driving his own car. It was disconnected enough, but Pamela laughed politely and made no attempt at conversational efforts on her own account.
And then presently he came to a dead stop. His stock of vapid anecdote had run dry, and she showed signs of being about to call her dogs and continue her walk.
Something must be done, something bold, something daring, desperate.
“I—I knew you were staying here,” stammered he at last, suddenly losing control of the muscles of his face, and growing red and white and all sorts of colours. “But—I—I—I didn’t like to come before. Only—when somebody said you—you were g-g-going abroad, I—I—I felt I must come.”
“To say good-bye. It’s very kind of you,” panted Pamela quickly.
“No, no, no. You know I didn’t mean that. Look here. I—I want to ask you something. Isn’t it—a little awkward—to be here—even if they’re nice, and of course they are nice?” said Sir Harry, speaking more and more quickly, and wholly unable to choose appropriate and inoffensive expressions.
Pamela raised her pretty head proudly.
“Oh, of course it’s awkward, dreadfully, dreadfully awkward. But what of that? It must always be awkward—for us—everywhere—now.”
“I don’t see why it should.”
She turned upon him fiercely.