"But I must go," said Urquhart. "I'm awfully sorry, but I've got to meet a man.... I shall see you some time, shan't I, Margery? Why don't you ever come and see me, you slacker? Well, good-bye. Good-bye, Lucy. Lunch to-morrow; don't forget."
He was gone.
Peter sat on the coal-scuttle, and Lucy gave him tea, with three lumps in it.
"Thank you," said Peter.
Lucy looked at him. "You did know, didn't you? All this time, I mean? I didn't tell you, because I never tell you things, of course. You always know them. And this particularly. You did know it, Peter? But when you came in you looked ... you looked as if you didn't."
"I was stupid," said Peter. "I ought to have known."
Looking back, he saw that he certainly ought. He certainly must have, only that his vision had been blocked by a certain deeply-rooted idea, that was as old as his growth. He had assumed, without words. He had thought that she too had assumed; neither had ever required words to elucidate their ideas one to the other; they had kept words for the other things, the jolly, delightful things of the foreground.
"How long?" asked Peter, drinking his tea to warm him, for, though it was so hot outside, he felt very cold in here.
She told him. "Oh, since the beginning, I think. I thought you knew, Peter.... We didn't say anything about it till quite lately. Only we both knew."
She came and sat on the rug by his side, and slipped her hand into his. "Are you glad, Peter? Please, Peter, be glad."