‘What are you looking at, Roddy?’
‘You.’
‘I can see your eyes. Can you see mine?’ He bent his head over hers.
‘Yes, of course. They’re like stars. Lovely dark eyes.’
‘Are they?... Roddy paying compliments,—how funny! Roddy, I remember you. Do you remember yourself when we were children?’
‘Not much. I never remember the past. I suppose I’m not interested enough—or interesting enough.’
She felt checked, and dared not ask the ‘What do you remember about me?’ which should have opened the warm little paths of childish reminiscence. Roddy had no desire to recall the uninteresting figures of himself and the little girl Judith: that trifling relationship had been brushed away as soon as it had ceased. She must realize that, for him, no long threads came dragging from the web of the past, tangling the present.
She stared into the dark garden, wondering what safe topic to propose.
‘When do you go back to Paris, Roddy?’
‘Oh,—soon, I suppose.’