"The sun was rather hot. It's a headache; I walked back by the road."
"With the faithful one?"
"No," she said evenly, "Mr. Grandcourt remained to fish."
"He went to worship and remained to fish," said Duane, laughing. The girl lifted her face to look at him—a white little face so strange that the humour died out in his eyes.
"He's a good deal of a man," she said. "It's one of my few pleasant memories of this year—Mr. Grandcourt's niceness to me—and to all women."
She set her elbow on the chair's edge and rested her cheek in her hollowed hand. Her gaze had become remote once more.
"I didn't know you took him so seriously," he said in a low voice. "I'm sorry, Geraldine."
All her composure had returned. She lifted her eyes insolently.
"Sorry for what?"
"For speaking as I did."