'It was a present,' she said. 'From one of the nicest men I ever knew.'
This chilled Henry's heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out of his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new girl, Henry was an incorrigible idealist.
It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It hurt, just to think of it. And presents—things like that, gold in it—the thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened his thoughts.
'That's it,' these ran now. 'Presents! Money! That's what girls want. Keep you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on 'em. That's what they're after!'
The situation was so painful that he got up abruptly and again skipped stones. Until the fact that she let him do it, amused herself practising songs and drinking in the beauty of the place and the day, became quite too much for him.
When he came gloomily over, she remarked:—
'We must be starting back.'
He stood motionless; even let her get up, with an amused expression throw his coat over her arm, and take a few steps along the beach.
'Oh, come on, don't go yet,' he begged. 'Why, we've only just got here.'
'It's a long walk. And it's hot. We'll never get back for dinner if we don't start. I mustn't keep Mildred waiting.'