He realized then that it was Winny that he wanted, and that the grief he found so terrible and intolerable was driving him to her, though when he started he had not meant to go to her, he had not known that he would go.
She rose when she saw him and came forward.
"Ranny! Were you coming to me?"
"Yes." (He knew it now.) "Let's stay here a bit. I've left Uncle and Aunt with Mother."
"How is she?"
"Oh—well, it's pretty awful for her."
"It must be."
He was sitting near her but a little apart, staring at the lamplit road. She felt him utterly removed from her. Yet he was there. He had come to her.
"I don't think," he said, presently, "Mother'll ever be happy again. I sha'n't, either."
She put her hand on his hand that lay palm downward between them on the seat and that was stretched toward her, not as if it sought her consciously, but in utter helplessness. There was no response in it beyond a nervous quivering that struck through her fingers to her heart.