“Do you remember the old days here—when you first came?”
She had never once spoken of this till now, and I did not know what to say. I stammered out: Yes, I remembered.
“You drove me down to the Vicarage once,” she said.
Then I half fancied that perhaps she was not disinclined to talk to me and occupy her mind a little; I felt I must help her, make it easier for her. And perhaps I was a little touched myself at the thought.
“Yes,” I said, “I remember. It was a glorious drive. But Fruen must have found it cold towards the last.”
“It was you that must have felt cold,” she answered. “You lent me your own rug from the box. Oh, you poor thing!”
I was even more moved at this, and foolish ideas came into my head. Ah, then she had not forgotten me! The few years that had passed since then had not made so much difference in me after all!
“Fruen must be mistaken about the rug, I think,” said I. “But I remember we stopped at a cottage to eat, and the woman made coffee, and you gave me things yourself.”
As I spoke, I leaned up against the fence, with my arms round a post. Perhaps this somehow offended her, looking as if I expected her to stand gossiping there with me. And then I had said, “We stopped at a cottage,” as if we had been equals. It was a bad mistake on my part, of course, but I had got a little out of hand after all these vagabond months.
I stood up straight again the moment I saw she was displeased, but it was too late. She was just as kind as ever, but she had grown suspicious and easily hurt with all her trouble, and found rudeness in what was merely awkwardness of mine.