Hetty dabbled her hand over the side of the boat. “Oh—go!” she said.
“Yes,” said Peter over the oars, and as if ashamed, “I must go—I must. There is a train this afternoon which catches the express at Domo d’Ossola.”
He rowed for a while. Presently he stole a glance at Hetty. She was lying quite still on her cushion under the tilt, staring at the distant mountains, with tears running down her set face. They were real tears. “Three days,” she said choking, and at that rolled over to weep noisily upon her arms.
Peter sat over his oars and stared helplessly at her emotion.
A familiar couplet came into his head, and remained unspoken because of its striking inappropriateness:
“I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.”
Presently Hetty lay still. Then she sat up and wiped at a tear-stained face.
“If you must go,” said Hetty, “you must go. But why you didn’t go from Brigue——!”
That problem was to exercise Peter’s mind considerably in the extensive reflections of the next few days and nights.