"Were you expecting me?"
"I—I think I was—that is—I—I don't know!" I stammered.
"Then you were not—very surprised to see me?"
"No."
"And you are not—very sorry to see me?"
"No."
"And—are you not very—glad to see me?
"Yes."
Here there fell a silence between us, yet a silence that was full of leafy stirrings, soft night noises, and the languorous murmur of the brook. Presently Charmian reached out a hand, broke off a twig of willow and began to turn it round and round in her white fingers, while I sought vainly for something to say.
"When I went away this morning," she began at last, looking down at the twig, "I didn't think I should ever come back again."