“Forgive me,” she said. “I have spoiled the party.”
“No,” he said. “It’s my fault. I knew better. Yet I couldn’t resist it. And it is in a sense a farewell party.”
“What does that mean?”
“After your wedding I may not see you again for a long time. I’m only waiting on Enoch’s account. Then I shall be going to Europe for a year, perhaps more.”
“On business?”
“Y-e-s,” he answered slowly.
They took several more turns without speaking.
“What are your plans?” he asked.
“None that I know of,” she said.
She had stopped. He saw that her gaze was directed at Enoch’s ancestral iron-stone house below. The fitful glare of the blast furnaces, lower down, lighted its sombre nakedness and gave it a relentless, sinister aspect. The windows, which were small and unsoftened by copings, were like cruel, ferocious eyes in a powerful, short-haired, suspicious animal.