Hermione didn't answer or lift her head and, stooping above her, he saw how she was trembling; but her eyes were still fast shut.
"You—you're not afraid—of me, are you, Hermione?"
"No."
"And you're not—crying, are you?"
"No."
"Then I'd—better go, hadn't I? To Mrs. Trapes and supper—stewed beef, I think, with—er—carrots and onions—"
Her head was still bowed, and his tone was so light, his voice so lazy, how was she to know that his hands were quivering or see how the passion of his yearning was shaking him, fighting for utterance against his iron will? How was she to know anything of all this until, swiftly, lightly, he stooped and kissed the shining glory of her hair? In a while she raised her head, but then—she was alone.