‘I know.’
‘Don’t tell anyone, Judith, but I’m not coming back.’
‘Oh, Jennifer, what shall I do without you?’
‘Darling, I can’t come back,’ she said in an urgent, painful whisper.
‘I know. I know. And I must come back, I suppose. I’m like that: I can’t uproot. You’re wise, you never grow roots. So you can go away when you want to without making a wound in yourself. It’s no good my pretending I could do the same. I must wait; though goodness knows for what: the examinations I suppose. This place without you.... Oh!’
She pressed her forehead against the hand that still held hers, abandoning, with her last words, the effort to speak lightly.
‘Darling,’ said Jennifer. ‘It is making a wound—you ought to know. You’re making a wound.’
‘Then why do you go away from me?’
‘Oh, Judith, I’ve got to go!’ She sighed wearily. ‘What I really wanted to say to you was: please forgive me for everything.’
‘Forgive.... Oh, Jennifer....’