"Makes me wonder," he completed, "whether I've not been outgrown, too."
It was not a satisfying answer. She remembered that growth may be other than benign.
"You!" she said.
"Why not? I was young, preposterously young. Had I been older, I should never have dared meddle with your life."
"Meddle!" she repeated, his self-reproach rang so true; "you gave me the wisest advice such a girl could receive. That girl could not appreciate how wise it was, but this one does and thanks you from the bottom of her heart."
Atwood drew a long breath.
"You can say that!" he exclaimed. "You knew what it meant to return; I did not. Since I have realized the truth, the thought of my folly has given me no peace. I imagined—God knows what I haven't imagined! To see you here, as you are; to have you thank me, when I thought I deserved your undying hate, is like a reprieve."
Jean's face went radiant. "Yet you say you knew her!"
Their eyes met an instant; then they laughed together happily.
"You're right," he acknowledged. "It seems I don't know either of you. But we can't talk here, can we? We need—" He paused, then, "Give me this day," he entreated. "We're not strangers. Say you will!"