"Can Nance find time to shake hands with a mere Englishman?"
Nance laid down the bunch of heliotrope she was still holding.
And at the same moment, Clodagh looked round impulsively.
"Nance and I were quarrelling," she said.
"Quarrelling! What on earth about?" Gore looked amusedly from one to the other.
"Oh, about——"
But Nance interrupted by stepping quickly forward.
"About nothing!" she said hastily. "How are you, Walter? I'm so glad to see you! But I must wash my hands before I even try to talk. Heliotrope is much stickier than you'd think." She looked down at her fingers, then laughed and moved across the room. But as Gore hurried forward to open the door for her, she glanced up into his face with an almost serious look.
"I'm so glad you have come back!" she whispered. "Make up to her for the time you've been away!"
Gore's feelings were very pleasant, very protective, as he closed the door and turned back into the room. He was too essentially an Englishman to be very demonstrative; but the leaven of sentiment that so often lies in the English character had always held a place in his nature. In confessing his love to Clodagh—in acknowledging that love to himself—he had indisputably swept aside some difficulties—difficulties born of inherent prejudice, of a certain stiff-necked distrust of what he had begun by criticising. But they had been thrust aside. He had acknowledged himself stirred to the depths of nature by something brilliant and vivid in her personality. He had made his choice.