He knew that he had hurt her in the soft places of her heart; and with his knowledge a fire kindled, setting strange hot cruelties ablaze.
“Besides, it’s easy enough to fall in love, you know—I’ve done it lots of times, and so have you, I expect—easy enough to fall in love and just as easy to fall out.”
She answered him sweetly.
“Oh, I can do both—I’ve done both—but it’s not been easy, not a bit.”
“Well, I’ll wish you luck.”
He took off his hat and passed on. For a quarter of a mile he hated her. He hated her because he had wounded her, and because she would not be proud enough to hide the wound—because from outside his life she still troubled it—because he had lied to her—because he had treated her badly—because he had once loved her and because he had denied it—because he loved her still and could not deny it any more.
§ 11
He was so busy hating and loving her that he did not notice the large car that passed him at the cross roads till he heard it slithering to a stop. Then he looked up and saw it was his mother’s. Jenny stuck her head out of the window.
“Hullo, Peter! Like a lift home?”
“No thanks, I’m not going home. I’ve got to call at Fourhouses.”