“Some people—yes. But I think with others one look is enough.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she said, thinking of him. “Shall we go a little farther towards the woods?”
“Yes; let us.”
She knew he was suffering obscurely that day, perhaps in his pride, perhaps in something else. She hoped it was in his pride. Anyhow, she felt pity for him in her new-found happiness. For she was happier now in comparison with what she had been. And with that happiness came a great longing to comfort him, to draw him out of his cold reserve, to turn him into the eager and almost confidential boy he had been with her. As they passed the red tennis court and walked towards the end of the garden which skirted the woods she said:
“I want you to understand something. I know it must have seemed unfriendly in me to put you off, and then to leave England without letting you know. But I had a reason which I can’t explain.”
“Yes?”
“I shall never be able to explain it. But if I could you would realize at once that my friendship for you was unaltered.”
“Well, but you didn’t let me know you were back. You did not ask me to come to see you.”
“I did not think you would care to come.”
“But—why?”