His uneasiness finally drove him to take what a little earlier would have seemed an impossible way out of his difficulties. One day, at the end of the brooding of a lonely walk, he met Stella unexpectedly in Icklesham street, and after the inevitable platitudes of greeting followed the first wild plunges of his mind.
“I say, Stella—forgive my asking you—but am I to congratulate you and Gervase?”
The colour rushed over her face, and he had an uneasy moment, wondering whether he had guessed right or merely been impertinent.
“No—you’ll never have to do that,” she answered firmly the next minute.
“I—I beg your pardon.”
He was flushing too, partly with relief, partly with apprehension at the rejoiced, violent beating of his heart.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter a bit. Other members of your family have been half-asking—hinting ... so I’d rather you asked outright. Of course, seeing that I’m seven years older than Gervase, one would have thought ... but I suppose people must have something to talk about.”
He assented weakly—and it suddenly struck him that she was wondering why he had asked her instead of Gervase.
“As a matter of fact,” she continued, “I don’t see so much of him as people think. He comes over to us on Sundays, but that’s partly for Father Luce. He serves the Parish Mass, and they both have lunch with us afterwards—and in the afternoon he helps with the children.”
Peter felt inexpressibly relieved that there was no truth in his picture of Gervase and Stella in the afternoon—no kisses, no strokings of her hair, which was like fine silk between your fingers ... like a child’s hair.... Fresh and bright and living as ever, it curled up under the brim of her hat ... he wondered if she saw how he was staring at it—yes, she must, for she put up her hand rather nervously and pushed a curl under the straw.