Cartaret.
"You wouldn't, you wouldn't," she said. "He's funnier than you've any
idea of."
"Is he ever ill?"
"Never."
"That of course makes it difficult."
"Except colds in his head. But he wouldn't have you for a cold in his
head. He wouldn't have you for anything if he could help it."
"Well--perhaps--if he's as funny as all that, we'd better turn."
They turned.
They were walking so fast now that they couldn't talk.
Presently they slackened and he spoke.
"I say, shall you ever get away from this place?"
"Never, I think."
"Do you never want to get away?"
"No. Never. You see, I love it."
"I know you do." He said it savagely, as if he were jealous of the
place.
"So do you," she answered.
"If I didn't I suppose I should have to."
"Yes, it's better, if you've got to live in it."
"That wasn't what I meant."
After that they were silent for a long time. She was wondering what he
did mean.
When they reached the Vicarage gate he sheered off the path and held
out his hand.
"Oh--aren't you coming in for tea?" she said.
"Thanks. No. It's a little late. I don't think I want any."
He paused. "I've got what I wanted."
He stepped backward, facing her, raising his cap, then he turned and
hurried down the hill.
Gwenda walked slowly up the flagged path to the house door. She stood
there, thinking.
"He's got what he wanted. He only wanted to see what I was like.
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