And it _might_ have been diphtheria."
Thus by accusing him she endeavored to justify herself.
"It might," he said, "but it wasn't. I had to knock off work till I
was sure."
"And you're sure now?"
"I can tell you _you_ wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
"And they told me you were dying."
(She was utterly disgusted.)
At that he laughed aloud. An irresistible, extravagantly delighted
laugh. When he stopped he choked and began all over again; the idea of
his dying was so funny; so was her disgust.
"That," she said, "was why I came."
"Then I'm glad they told you."
"I'm not," said she.
He laughed again at her sudden funny dignity. Then, as suddenly, he
was grave.
"I say--it _was_ nice of you."
She held out her hand.
"And now--as you're not dead--I'm off."
"Oh no, you're not. You're going to stay and have tea and I'm going to
walk back with you."
She stayed.
* * * * *
They walked over the moor by Karva. And as they went he talked to her
as he hadn't talked before. It was all about himself and his tone
was very serious. He talked about his work and (with considerable
reservations and omissions) about his life in Leeds, and about his
ambition. He told her what he had done and why he had done it and what
he was going to do. He wasn't going to stay in Garthdale all his life.
Not he. Presently he would want to get to the center of things. (He
forgot to mention that this was the first time he had thought of it.
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