“It is true that I have not sought for opportunities of being alone with you,” she said. “I am now quite ready to explain why, though I think you must have some idea of what I felt.” Winifred did not at once reply. She was again staring out of the window, and again a feeling of irritation came over her. Did every side of the house look out on that detestable lower terrace?
“I am quite ready for as long a talk as you like,” she said. “I daresay you have felt a little shaken in me, but—I think I can make you understand me.”
And she looked up in Hertha’s face so frankly, that again—and she was glad of it—the conviction of Winifred’s honesty of intention and absence of cunning or calculation returned to Miss Norreys almost as at first.
“Shall we go out for our talk?” Hertha said. “It is a lovely fresh morning, and I have just a little—headache of a kind. At least, I did not sleep well.”
“No, I remember: you did not look like yourself when you came down to breakfast,” said Winifred, with sudden compunction. “And I am keeping you standing about. Are you sure it won’t tire you? After all, we shall have plenty of time for talking in the future, I hope.”
Hertha shook her head.
“I don’t want to put it off,” she said. “Indeed, I cannot. If there were no other reason, you know how seldom I have a free half-day even at home. And there are other reasons. Can you get your hat? The air will do me good. I will wait for you by the sun-dial,” and she moved away as she spoke.
“I will be with you in two minutes,” said Winifred.