"Yes," said Dick bravely, "I told Archie."
"I'm sorry you did that. Will you then just tell him exactly what I said—exactly, you know. That I thought it would be 'No'; but that I only didn't say so at once because you wished it."
"Very well," said Dick.
It was a minute or so before either spoke again. Jenny had that delightful and soothing gift which prevents silence from being empty. It is the same gift, in another form, as that which enables its possessor to put people at their ease. (It is, I suppose, one of the elements of tact.) Dick had a sense that they were still talking gently and reasonably, though he could not quite understand all that Jenny was meaning.
She interrupted it by a sudden sentence.
"I wonder if it's fair," she said. "You know I'm all but certain. I only don't say so because—"
"Let it be at that," said Dick. "It's my risk, isn't it?"
(III)
When he had left her at last, she sat on perfectly still in the same place. The robin had given it up in despair: this human creature was not going to scratch garden-paths as she sometimes did, and disclose rich worms and small fat maggots. But a cat had come out instead and was now pacing with stiff forelegs, lowered head and trailing tail, across the sunny grass, endeavoring to give an impression that he was bent on some completely remote business of his own.
He paused at the edge of the shadow and eyed the girl malignantly.