She shook her head.
“I shall never marry anybody now, Tim. If—if ever I 'get over' this fool feeling for Garth, I know how it would leave me. I shall be quite cold and hard inside—like that stone”—pointing to the Queen's Bench. “I wish—I wish I had reached that stage now.”
Silently Tim held out his hand, and she laid hers within it, meeting his grave eyes.
“I won't ever bother you again,” he said, at last, quietly. “I think I understand, Sara, and—and, old girl, I'm awfully sorry. I wish I could have saved you—that.”
He stooped his head and kissed her—frankly, as a big brother might, and Sara, recognizing that henceforth she would find in him only the good comrade of earlier days, kissed him back.
“Thank you, Tim,” she said. “I knew you would understand. And, please, we won't ever speak of it again.”
“No, we won't speak of it again,” he answered.
He tucked his arm under hers, and they walked on together in the direction of the house.
“And now,” she said, “let's go to Elisabeth and break it to her that we are—both—going out to France as soon as we can get there.”
He turned to look at her.