"I say, Mary," he said again, still undecided as to whether he should speak his mind or not.
"Yes?" she repeated.
He went up a step or two of the stairs. "Oh, I don't know," he exclaimed. "I only wanted to say how nice it is to be here again!"
"Oh, yes!" Mary said, and he imagined that her tone was one of disappointment.
"I'll be down presently," he went on, and then he ran up the stairs to his room.
"I don't know," he said to himself, as he closed his door. "I'm damned if I know!"
He sat down at the writing-table and spread a sheet of notepaper in front of him. "I wish I knew!..." he murmured, and he wrote down the date. "Mary is awfully nice, and I like her of course, but Sheila!..."
He put the pen down again and sat back in his chair and stared out of the window. Out in the farmyard, he could hear the men bedding the horses, and there was a clatter of cans from the dairy where the women were turning the milk into cream. He could hear a horse whinnying in its stall ... and as he listened he seemed to see Sheila, as he had seen her on her uncle's farm before he had failed in courage, standing outside the byre with a crock in her hands and a queer, teasing look in her eyes. "You're the quare wee fella!" she was saying, and then, "I like you quaren well!..."
He seized the pen again and began to write.