"I know," he answered. "It's a kind of ... cowardice, that, isn't it? I'm vague because I dislike ... am afraid ... to be definite. I'm a frightful coward, Mary!..."
He might approach the subject by these devious ways, he told himself. He had not meant to talk to her about his failure in courage until she and he could be alone in the evening ... this walk together was to be the final lovers' stroll, unmarred by any bitterness ... but even in his effort to postpone the time of telling, he had prepared to tell her ... and perhaps it was better that she should know now. Here, indeed, in this snowy silence, they were free from any intrusion. It might not be possible to make his confession to her without interruption from Rachel or Mrs. Graham ... and some feeling for the fitness of things made him decide that this outdoor scene was a better place for his purpose than the lamplit interior of the Manor. Through the blown branches of the hedges he could see the thick sheets of snow spread over the fields. The boughs of the fruit-trees in the orchard showed very black beneath their white covering, as if they felt cold, and he looted away quickly to the haystacks in the farmyard that seemed so warm in spite of the snow. The dusk was drawing in, and the grey sky was darkening for the night....
"Mary," he said, so abruptly that she looked up at him enquiringly. "Let's walk back a little way...."
"But, Quinny, it's getting late. They'll wonder what's happened to us!"
"I want to tell you ... now, Mary!"
He compelled her to turn, as he spoke, and they walked slowly back towards the fir tree.
"What is it, Quinny?" she asked tenderly, as if she would comfort him.
"I ... I want to tell you something!"
"Yes?"
"I hardly know how to begin. It's very difficult, dear...."