Agatha winced at this. It was, no doubt, true, but it seemed horribly petty and commonplace. His comprehension stopped at such details as these, and he had given her no credit for the courage which would have made light of bodily discomfort.
"Do you think—that—would have mattered? We were both very young then, and we could have faced our troubles and grown up together. Now we're not the same. You let me grow up alone."
"'Do you think—that—would have mattered?'"
Hawtrey spread his hands out. "I haven't changed."
He contented himself with that, and Agatha grew more resolute. There was no spark of imagination in him, scarcely even a spark of the passion which, if it had been strong enough, might have swept her away in spite of her shrinking. He was a man of comely presence, whimsical, and quick, as she remembered, at light badinage, but when there was a crisis to be grappled with he somehow failed. His graces were on the surface. There was no depth in him.
"Aggy," he added humbly, when he should have been dominantly forceful, "it is only a question of a little time. You will get used to me."
"Then," and the girl clutched at the chance of respite, "give me six months from to-day. It isn't very much to ask, Gregory."
The man wrinkled his brows. "It's a great deal," he answered slowly. "I seem to feel that we shall drift further and further apart if once I let you go."