He put his arm round her shoulders.
‘It must be much worse for you,’ he said vaguely, wishing to help. Already he knew dimly that he, being young, would forget some day.
She moved gently away from him. ‘But we mustn’t be tragic, must we?’ she said, trying to smile. ‘You don’t quite understand.’
‘I understand something,’ he pleaded, lest his sympathy should be repulsed. ‘So very little, but something. I’ve loved her for weeks ... but she must be infinitely more to you.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Rosemary,’ said Sheila. ‘Please don’t look quite like that,’ she almost passionately added.
He trod the fringe of the incomprehensible. ‘Ah, you were thinking.... My way of speaking perhaps reminded you....’
‘I was thinking of Rosemary’s father,’ Sheila abruptly assured him. ‘And so you are in love with my daughter, are you?’ She spoke almost coldly. ‘Would you think me very bitter if I congratulated you on losing her?’
His face was all question.
‘She would have broken your heart. She is very hard to those that love her.’
‘Hard!’ His tone was almost scornful in its incredulity. ‘With the face of an angel and the wondering eyes of a child!’