"Perhaps."
"You don't seem very eager."
"Don't I?"
"No. And we're old friends, aren't we?"
He asked the question with a wistful frankness. Before she could answer it, he went on in some haste:
"I never knew whether to believe you really when you told me you forgave me. You said you understood precisely how I was situated, and that you didn't blame me, for you might have done the same thing. Do you remember?"
"Oh, yes, I remember all about everything. And I do forgive you."
"I'm so glad! And we are friends?"
"Yes, we are friends."
Prudence had risen to her feet now. Her eyes were raised to the face above her, and the man met a softly brilliant look that recalled the past vividly to him and made him think that he could not do better, since he must kill time some way, than to stay over at that seaside hotel, though he had been thinking a half-hour ago that he might as well move on. He was also telling himself that Prudence Ffolliott was more sensible than most girls; she understood how a "fellow might be obliged to do some things when he wanted to do other things;" this was the way Lord Maxwell put the case in his own mind. And she wasn't going to lay anything up.