“Yes,” said Freddie, mystified. “As a matter of fact, my last year at Oxford, playing soccer for the college in a friendly game, some blighter barged into me and I came down on my wrist. But …”
“It hurt?”
“Like the deuce!”
“And then it began to get better, I suppose. Well, used you to hit it and twist it and prod it, or did you leave it alone to try and heal? I won’t talk any more about Derek! I simply won’t! I’m all smashed up inside, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to get well again, but at least I’m going to give myself a chance. I’m working as hard as ever I can, and I’m forcing myself not to think of him. I’m in a sling, Freddie, like your wrist, and I don’t want to be prodded. I hope we shall see a lot of each other while you’re over here—you always were the greatest dear in the world—but you mustn’t mention Derek again, and you mustn’t ask me to go home. If you avoid those subjects, we’ll be as happy as possible. And now I’m going to leave you to talk to poor Nelly. She has been hovering round for the last ten minutes, waiting for a chance to speak to you. She worships you, you know!”
Freddie started violently.
“Oh, I say! What rot!”
Jill had gone, and he was still gaping after her, when Nelly Bryant moved towards him—shyly, like a worshiper approaching a shrine.
“Hello, Mr Rooke!” said Nelly.
“Hullo-ullo-ullo!” said Freddie.
Nelly fixed her large eyes on his face. A fleeting impression passed through Freddie’s mind that she was looking unusually pretty this morning: nor was the impression unjustified. Nelly was wearing for the first time a Spring suit which was the outcome of hours of painful selection among the wares of a dozen different stores, and the knowledge that the suit was just right seemed to glow from her like an inner light. She felt happy: and her happiness had lent an unwonted color to her face and a soft brightness to her eyes.