“I thought——”
“It made it very horrid meeting you again, very anxious, I mean—I mean I don’t know what your life is like.”
“You know I shall never find anyone like you, René, never.”
He thought with distaste of her brothers, robust, athletic young men, wonderfully tailored, with a knack of getting the last ounce of effect out of soap and water. Dirt avoided them; they could not be shabby or untidy, and they made him feel grubby and shrunken. Oxford and Cambridge they were, and they stared him into a sort of silly shame when he spoke of his university, Thrigsby, and yet, through his shame there would dart tremors of a fierce feeling of moral superiority. Anyhow, their sister loved him, and never “chipped” him as their young women “chipped” them. There was never any sign that their young women took them seriously.
“I will write,” said Cathleen. “This year won’t seem so long. I couldn’t be certain, last year.”
“Are you certain now?”
“Oh, René!”
This time the enchantment was full on them, raced through them, alarmed them. They moved a little apart.
“Let’s talk sense,” said he. “I want to marry you.”