“I am sure,” said Essie, “that you don’t love him yet, but I think you are on the road. Who was it who said
‘The ways of love are harder
Than thoroughfares of stones.’
Whoever it was, he knew what he was talking about. You have found the thoroughfare stony, and you rebel and are angry, very angry, and desert your fellow traveller. He, poor man, did not make the road. I expect he is just as angry and foot-sore as you are.”
“He was a year ago. I don’t know what he is now. It is a year since he wrote.”
Essie knitted in silence.
At last I said desperately:
“I have told you everything. Do you think it’s possible he still cares for me?”
Essie waited a long minute before answering.
“I don’t know,” she said, and then added, “but I think you will presently go to Turkistan and find out.”