And now she did laugh, throwing back her head, and he laughed with her, shyly but not resentfully. It was as though a crisis in their relationship had been passed. He could trust her to understand. And he knew that though what he had said was true, it had also sounded young and sententious.
"You think I'm talking rot, don't you?"
"I only think you've changed," she answered, with a quick gravity. "Not outside. Outside you're just a few feet bigger and the round lines have become straight. But when you were a little boy you used to cry a good deal."
"I don't see—how did you know?"
"I did know. There were certain smears—I don't think you liked having your face washed—and a red, tired, look under the eyes. The point is that now I can't imagine your ever having cried at all."
"I haven't." He calculated solemnly. "Not for more than twelve years.
I remember, because it was after I had played truant at the circus."
But he did not want to tell her about the circus. He stopped short and looked at his watch in the lamplight.
"Nearly twelve. We've been prowling round this place for an hour. I've got to get home and work. I thought you said you lived near here."
"I do. Over the way. The big house. I've two rooms on the top floor.
Rather jolly—and near St. Mary's——"
"What—what do you want with St. Mary's?"