This brought them nearer than they had been since the time that Kent realised he loved her. To Kent this meeting was enchantment. To see her sitting by him, bright, laughing, her old self, was enough to make him lose sense of the past eighteen months of hopeless longing. He thought to himself that it was better she had not learned, since her ignorance gave him this sweet half hour.
“I suppose we must be going upstairs soon,” she said, with a little wistful wrinkling of her forehead. “When shall I see you again?”
Kent started at the question. It troubled him. He did not know what answer to make.
“Within less than another year, I hope,” he said.
“Oh, yes, Kent. We mustn't be strangers any more. It's not good for us. Would you care about seeing me very often?”
“I am not coming to call upon you,” he replied bluntly.
The actual words were ungracious. But there was a flash of eager longing in his eyes that lent the words a subtle meaning. And Clytie rose from the table with a little gasp of pain as the truth burst upon her.
“Oh, Kent, Kent!” she cried, greatly moved.
Their eyes met, and this time there was no mistake. He knew that she had guessed. But with a great effort he evaded the appeal.
“No; I can't come to your house to see you,” he said huskily. “There you are Mrs. Hammerdyke, and I shouldn't know you. Your home is full of interests and associations in which I could only be a stranger and an intruder. To me you are Clytie, the Clytie whose daily life I used to share—and only as Clytie can I bear to see you.”