“Of course I don't want you to go. How could I?”
Summerhay gasped.
“Then you DO love me?”
She turned her face away.
“Wait, please. Wait a little longer. When we come back I'll tell you: I promise!”
“So long?”
“A month. Is that long? Please! It's not easy for me.” She smiled faintly, lifted her eyes to him just for a second. “Please not any more now.”
That evening at his club, through the bluish smoke of cigarette after cigarette, he saw her face as she had lifted it for that one second; and now he was in heaven, now in hell.
VI
The verandahed bungalow on the South Coast, built and inhabited by an artist friend of Aunt Rosamund's, had a garden of which the chief feature was one pine-tree which had strayed in advance of the wood behind. The little house stood in solitude, just above a low bank of cliff whence the beach sank in sandy ridges. The verandah and thick pine wood gave ample shade, and the beach all the sun and sea air needful to tan little Gyp, a fat, tumbling soul, as her mother had been at the same age, incurably fond and fearless of dogs or any kind of beast, and speaking words already that required a glossary.