He laughed across the broad sun-slashed road, to where she plodded in solitary anger.
“Won’t you join me in my ditch, Peter?” seductively; “it’s a very nice ditch.”
No reply.
“Peter. I did have to come. That’s rather a triumph for you, isn’t it? I couldn’t keep away any longer.”
She stamped her foot: “I won’t have my sword returned to me in that fashion. And you know perfectly well it wasn’t cowardice; that I can’t call you back, ever, in case you might be gone for good.”
“Do you mean to say,” in blank astonishment, “that if it were for good, you’d have let me walk out in that casual fashion?”
“‘According to the letter of the bond,’” she quoted.
He kicked the sodden leaves with his heel; picked up a stick and swished it at the air; burst forth at length: “Hang it, Peter! I showed you the exit-door once, and you’ve kept your eye glued to it ever since. Forget it, can’t you?”
“It was an insult ever to point it out. Because there was no need for it. I wouldn’t have tugged.”
“I know that—now,” his accents were almost humble; “but you see, Peter, there have been other she-encounters, and ... and they didn’t know about the door. So I suppose I grew mistrustful.”