They walked together silently for a while.
“I should like to hear you say that you do not blame me,” said Derrick, at last, abruptly.
She knew what he meant, it was evident.
“I conna blame yo' fur doin' what were reet,” she answered.
“Right,—you thought it right?”
“Why should na I? Yo' couldna ha' done no other.”
“Thank you for saying that,” he returned. “I have thought once or twice that you might have blamed me.”
“I did na know,” was her answer. “I did na know as I had done owt to mak' yo' think so ill of me.”
He did not find further comment easy. He felt, as he had felt before, that Joan had placed him at a disadvantage. He so often made irritating mistakes in his efforts to read her, and in the end he seldom found that he had made any advance. Anice Barholm, with her problems and her moods, was far less difficult to comprehend than Joan Lowrie.
Liz was at the cottage door when they parted, and Liz's eyes had curiosity and wonder in them when she met her friend.