“But you will give me credit at least for meaning you well.”
“I think you are very jealous and suspicious.”
“You don't know how you pain me when you say that.”
“But I must say what I think.”
Mary set her little mouth, and looked down, and began tapping her boot with her parasol. There was an awkward silence while Tom considered within himself whether she was not right, and whether, after all, his own jealousy had not been the cause of the lecture he had been delivering, much more than any unselfish wish for Mary's improvement.
“It is your turn now,” he said presently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and looking hard at the gravel. “I may have been foolishly jealous, and I thank you for telling me so. But you can tell me a great deal more if you will, quite as good for me to hear.”
“No, I have nothing to say. I daresay you are open and true, and have nothing to hide or disguise, not even about either of the men we met in the Long Walk on Sunday.”
He winced at this random shaft as if he had been stung, and she saw that it had gone home, and repented the next moment. The silence became more and more embarrassing. By good luck, however, their party suddenly appeared strolling towards them from the large garden.
“Here are Uncle Robert and Katie, and all of them. Let us join them.”
She rose up, and he with her, and as they walked towards the rest, he said quickly in a low voice, “Will you forgive me if I have pained you? I was very selfish, and I am sorry.”