She laughed, radiant, curiously happy at being with him. She realized, with a little shock of discovery, the restfulness that was the essential quality of his companionship. He was a quiet haven after stormy seas; he represented something intimate and tender in her life.
They spoke for a while of common things: her train journey, the crossing, the wonders she had seen. He murmured incoherent sketches of his life in Paris, the new gun, and Hégisippe Cruchot. But of the reason for his summons he said nothing. At last she leaned across the table and said gently:
"Why am I here, Septimus? You haven't told me."
"Haven't I?"
"No. You see, the little dog's tail brought me post-haste to you, but it gave me no inkling why you wanted me so badly."
He looked at her in his scared manner.
"Oh, I don't want you at all; at least, I do—most tremendously—but not for myself."
"For whom, then?"
"Clem Sypher," said Septimus.
She paled slightly, and looked down at her plate and crumbled bread. For a long time she did not speak. The announcement did not surprise her. In an inexplicable way it seemed natural. Septimus and Sypher had shared her thoughts so oddly during her journey. An unaccountable shyness had checked her impulse to inquire after his welfare. Indeed, now that the name was spoken she could scarcely believe that she had not expected to hear it.