“Well, this has been what you might call a conversation galante so far.”
VI
THEY passed the little weather-beaten and discoloured lodge, waited for half a dozen deer that with delicate and nonchalant footsteps passed from the light of the broad road into the shade of the avenue; then they followed them into the aisle between the columnar trunks, the vista stretching to an infinite distance. The deep silence of the place seemed to render them both speechless. She walked, holding her long skirts held high.
Suddenly Grimshaw said: “Here’s the fifth tree.”
She answered: “I don’t want to hear what’s happened to him.”
“Ah, but you’ve got to.”
She averted her face.
“I know,” she said.
“You’ve heard?”
Her voice was rather muffled when she said: “No. I prophesied it. He’s had a panic. Perhaps he’s cut his throat. I don’t want to know. It serves him right.”