“They seem to have gone very soon,” he said, which was not a brilliant remark any more than her own.
“Immediately after lunch,” said Katherine, severely practical, “that they might get home in good time. You must always make certain allowances when you travel with young children. But,” she added, with a sudden rise of colour, “I should not attempt to enlighten you on that subject.”
“I certainly know what it is,” he said, with a grave face, “to consider the interests of a little child.”
“I know, I know,” cried Katherine with a sudden compunction, “I should not have said that.”
“I wish,” he said, “that you would allow me to speak to you on this subject. No, it is not on this subject. I tried to say what was in my heart before, but either you would not listen, or—I have a good deal to say to you that cannot be said. I don’t know how. If I could but convey it to you without saying it. It is only just to me that you should know. It may be just—to another—that it should not be said.”
“Let nothing be said,” she cried anxiously; “oh, nothing—nothing! Yet only one thing I should like you to tell me. That time we met on the railway—do you remember?”
“Do I remember!”
“Well; I wish to know this only for my own satisfaction. Were you married then?”
She stood still as she put the question in the middle of the walk; but she did not look at him, she looked out to sea.
He answered her only after a pause of some duration, and in a voice which was full of pain. “Are you anxious,” he said, “Katherine, to make me out not only false to you, but false to love and to every sentiment in the world?”