There was something about everything that was Ranny's, something that touched her, something that made her love it, because she loved him. Winny couldn't have burst out laughing in its face.
"I'm glad I came," she said. "Because now I can see you."
He misunderstood. "I hope you will, Winky—very often."
"I mean—see you when you're not there."
He looked away. Something in her voice moved him unspeakably. For one moment he saw into the heart of her—placid, profound, and pure.
He was going down the Avenue with her now. For in that moment he had felt the beauty of her and the sadness. He couldn't bear to think of her "seeing herself home," going back alone to that little room in St. Ann's Terrace, where some day, when Maudie married, she would be left alone. The least he could do was to walk with her a little way.
"I say, Win," he said, presently, "why ever haven't you come before?" He really wondered.
There was a long silence. Then, "I don't know, Ranny," she said, simply.
They had come to the end of Acacia Avenue before either of them spoke again. Then Ranny conceived something brilliant.
"What did you think of the Baby?" he said.