“I can’t quite see,” she said slowly, looking down at the ground, “what the attraction is. He’s nice enough, of course; a nice old man, but rather dull.”
“Oh, I don’t know about old, Alice. He’s much younger than you’d think, and he’s anything but dull. That’s only because you don’t know him. He is quiet when other people are there; but he’s awfully true and straight. And you know as one gets older, without being priggish about it, one chooses one’s friends for that sort of thing, not for superficial things a bit. I used to think it mattered whether they cared about the same ideas and were—well, artistic, you know. But that’s all rot; what really matters is whether they’ll stick to you and last.”
“One thing I always said about you, Tony,” she answered, “is that you don’t, as you say, stick. It’s better, you know, to be off with the old friends before you are on with the new.”
“Oh! I say!” He could scarcely speak for astonishment. “Alice! what’s the matter? Why, you don’t think I’ve changed about you, do you? I know—these past few days——”
“Oh, please don’t apologise, Tony,” she said, speaking very quickly. “I’m not making complaints. If you would rather be with Mr. Maradick, do. Make what friends you like; only when one comes down to stay, one expects to see something of you, just at meals, you know.”
He had never seen her like this before. Alice, the most self-contained of girls, reserving her emotions for large and abstract causes and movements, and never for a moment revealing any hint of personal likes or dislikes, never, so far as he had seen, showing any pleasure at his presence or complaining of his absence; and now, this!
“Oh! I say!” he cried again, “I’m most awfully sorry. It’s only been a few days—I know it was jolly rude. But the place has been so ripping, so beautiful, that I suppose I didn’t think about people much. I’ve been awfully happy, and that makes one selfish, I suppose. But I say,” he put a hand on her dress, “please don’t be angry with me, Alice, old girl. We’ve been chums for ages now, and when one’s known some one a jolly long time it isn’t kind of necessary to go on seeing them every day, one goes on without that, takes it on trust, you know. I knew that you were there and that I was there and that nothing makes any difference.”
The touch of his hand made her cheeks flame. “I’m sorry,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I don’t know why I spoke like that; of course we’re chums, only I’ve been a bit lonely; rotten these last few days, I’m sure I don’t know why.” She paused for a moment and then went on: “What it really is, is having to change suddenly. Oh, Tony, I’m such a rotter! You know how I talked about what I’d do if I were a man and the way I could help and the way you ought to help, and all the rest of it; well; that’s all gone suddenly—I don’t know why or when—and there’s simply nothing else there. You won’t leave me quite alone the rest of the time, Tony, please? It isn’t that I want you so awfully much, you know, but there isn’t anyone else.”
“Oh! we’ll have a splendid time,” he said. “You must get to know Maradick, Alice. He’s splendid. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s so awfully genuine.”
She got up. “You don’t describe him very well, Tony; all the same, genuine people are the most awful bores, you never know where you are. Well, forgive my little bit of temper. We ought to get back. They’ll be wondering where we are.”