‘D’you remember which is which?’ said Mariella.
Now she would have to look up and answer, control this trembling, arrest this devouring blush.
‘Of course I do.’
She lifted her eyes, and saw them standing before her, smiling a trifle self-consciously. That gave her courage to smile back.
‘You’re Martin—you’re Roddy—you’re——’ she hesitated. Julian stood aloof, looking unyouthful and haughty. She finished lamely—‘Mr. F-Fyfe.’
There was a roar of laughter, a chorus of teasing voices to which, plunged once more in a welter of blushes and confusion, she could pay no heed.
‘I thought you mightn’t like—might think me—I didn’t know if—you looked as if you——’ she stammered.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, that you should feel the need of any such formality,’ said Julian stiffly. He too was blushing.
‘It was only his shyness,’ mocked a voice.
Judith thought: ‘After all, he was always the friendly one.’ That he too should be shy restored her self-confidence, and she said looking full at him and smiling: