"No—I think not," he said. "What?"
"If it's possible—to forget all about this," she replied. "And—if that's also possible—to help my mother to forget, too. Don't think too hardly of her—I don't suppose any of us know how much all this place—and the money—meant to her."
"I've got no hard thoughts about her," said Collingwood. "I'm sorry for her. But—is it too soon to talk about the future?"
Nesta looked at him in a way which showed him that she only half comprehended the question. But there was sufficient comprehension in her eyes to warrant him in taking her hands in his.
"You know why I didn't go to India?" he said, bending his face to hers.
"I—guessed!" she answered shyly.
Then Collingwood, at this suddenly arrived supreme moment, became curiously bereft of speech. And after a period of silence, during which, being in the shadow of a grove of beech-trees which kindly concealed them from the rest of the world, they held each other's hands, all that he could find to say was one word.
"Well?"
Nesta laughed.
"Well—what?" she whispered.