“We have something to say to each other, haven’t we?”
“Yes. What made you come?”
“Your face at the station.”
“Ah!”
To both of them the interchange of question and answer seemed very strange and unreal. There was another silence. Of the two faces, side by side, staring visionless over the sea, the man’s showed the ravages of emotion most; perhaps because he was older, perhaps because it was his nature to take things harder. The little bird still lifted its voice; there was a curious pathos in the feeble twittering.
Jocelyn said suddenly, lifting her eyes to his—
“I have suffered so. I have cried till I think I shall never cry again. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t want to hurt you so. I couldn’t help it. Poor eyes!”
Her hand stole up, and touched his face. With the words and the touch of her hand, his self-control suddenly left him, and he shook with dry, silent sobs, burying his face deep in his hands. It was characteristic of him that he broke down most at the touch of tenderness.
Jocelyn pulled his head down on to her shoulder, stroking his hair and his cheek with her fingers, and murmuring—
“There, there!” as a mother cries to her child. All the hardness had gone out of her face, it was very tender, and her eyes were pure and deep-coloured with a wonderful pity.