“My dearest—” he began, but she checked him with a fierce cry—“No, no!—Not that—” and though he could see nothing but the sharp outline of her cheek and chin he knew that she was watching something. He looked about him vaguely. What on earth—? The sea—a narrow strip of blue tumbling water, spuming where it touched the yellow sands—the flecked, pale sky—the gorse—larks above it—in a far corner a gipsy’s tent, and a white horse foraging—. What on earth—?
He drew back. She seemed to start forwards as if to escape from him—but then she turned suddenly, and he saw that she was pale, that she trembled, and that there was real trouble in her eyes.
“I am tired,” she said, “very tired. May we go home now?”
“Of course—what a brute I am. But I thought that you— Won’t you tell me what has tired you all at once?”
“I don’t know—it came over me—suddenly. But I do want to go home, please—immediately.” Her eyes were full—brimming. He was touched.
“Come then, we’ll go to the station. It’s no great distance. Unless you would rather sit——”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly! No, no, indeed, I must go home. My head aches dreadfully. I think a sunstroke—perhaps. I can hardly stand up——”
He saw that that was true. “Come,” he said, “take my arm. We’ll go at once.”
When they had turned back she seemed to recover. She walked, at any rate, as fast as he did—set the pace. But she would not talk any more. In the train she sat apart, looking out of the window—and after a time he let her alone.
At Exeter when he put her in the fly and would have followed her, she put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t come with me. I shall be myself directly. I beg you not to come. And don’t think me ungrateful—indeed, you have been kindness itself. I’m very much ashamed of myself——”