“Let’s have lunch,” he said. “I’m afraid mine are only beef.”
“Mine are worse,” she smiled. “They’re only mutton.”
A sudden longing to tell her of his great adventure of five years ago came to George. (If you had suggested it to him in March!)
“It’s rather funny,” he said, as he untied his sandwiches—“I was down here five years ago——”
“I know,” she said quietly.
George sat up suddenly and stared at her.
“It was you!” he cried.
“Yes.”
“You. Good Lord!... But your name—you said your name was—wait a moment—that’s it! Rosamund!”
“It is. Gertrude Rosamund. I call myself Rosamund in the country. I like to pretend I’m not the”—she twisted a piece of grass in her hands, and looked away from him over the hill—“the horrible girl of the boarding-house.”