“Well, you see, I’ve no right to stay a minute longer than I need. And so ... if it’s convenient ... well, really, I should be going to-morrow.”
“Should you?” And there was the minimum of conventional regret in her voice, “I’ll tell Rendall to pack for you.”
“I can pack for myself ... thank you,” he said gruffly.
They were silent. His eyes absently swept over the view, then the border, and then lingered for a few seconds on the double row of ancient hawthorns, which, before the days of Plasencia and its garden, had stood on either side of a lane leading to a vanished village, and then fastened on the gibbous moon, pressed, like the petal of a white rose, against the blue sky, idly enjoying, as it were from the wings, the fragrance and tempered sunshine, while it waited for its cue to come on and play for the millionth millionth time its rôle of the amorous potent ghost.
“You’ve all been very kind to me ... you, specially,” he said.
“Oh ... it’s been a pleasure,” she answered dully.
“I’d like—if you could do with me—to come back for a wee visit in the summer ... before I say my first mass.” Then he added, with a little smile, “but maybe your mother won’t want to have me.”
“Oh ... I’m sure ... she’d be delighted,” she said, with nervous little catch in her voice.
He looked at her, squarely, sombrely: “No, she wouldn’t be delighted ... but I’ll come all the same,” and he gave a short laugh.
“Are you ... you ... when are you going to be ordained?”