He looked at her with more interest. There was colour in her face; her eyes were bright; in her tweed skirt she looked more of a country girl than he would have expected.
“Let’s sit down,” he said. “I thought you always went to Mar—to Cliftonville for your holiday?”
“I always go to my aunt’s there in the summer. It isn’t really a holiday; it’s more to help her; she has a boarding-house too. And it really is Cliftonville—only, of course, it’s silly of mother to mind having it called Margate. Cliftonville’s much worse than Margate really. I hate it.”
(This can’t be Gertie Morrison, thought George. It’s a dream.)
“When did you come here?”
“I’ve been here about ten days. A girl friend of mine lives near here. She asked me suddenly just after you’d gone—I mean about a fortnight ago. Mother thought I wasn’t looking well and ought to go. I’ve been before once or twice. I love it.”
“And do you have to wander about the country by yourself? I mean, doesn’t your friend—I say, I’m asking you an awful lot of questions. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. But, of course, I love to go about alone, particularly at this time of year. You understand that.”
Of course he understood it. That was not the amazing thing. The amazing thing was that she understood it.
He took his sandwiches from his pocket.