They set off along the road to Pelynt Cross, the thin sea mist driving in their faces.
He broke out: “I must go away from here. To-morrow, at once—I simply can’t stand it any longer.”
“Can’t stand what?”
“Seeing you swallowed up by the family, who all hate me and want to get rid of me. You yourself are changing—you aren’t frank with me any longer. You don’t say what you think. What use am I here anyway? What good is it my hanging round doing nothing? I’m sick of it. I’m losing you—I’m miserable. A Sunday like this is enough to make one commit murder.”
She put her hand inside his arm and drew him closer to her.
“I know what it is,” she said. “You’ve been wondering why I haven’t spoken to you about what you told me the other day. You’ve been thinking that I ought to, haven’t you?”
“No, it’s only that I’ve wondered whether perhaps you’ve changed your mind since then. Then you didn’t seem to be angry, but, thinking about it afterwards—”
“Why, Phil,” she said, “how could there be anything different? It’s all gone, finished. You don’t suppose that I ever imagined that you’d never loved another woman before you met me. I’m interested, that’s all. You’ve told me so little about her. I’d like to know all sorts of things—even quite little unimportant things—”
“It would be much better,” he said slowly, “if we just left it and didn’t talk about it.”
“But I thought you wanted me to talk about it?” she cried. “How funny you are!”