"
"I don't suppose I shall do anything really big. Do you?"
She was silent.
"Honestly now, do you think I shall?"
"I think the things you've done already, the things that'll never be
heard of, are really big."
His silence said, "They are not enough for me," and hers, "For me they
are enough."
"But the other things," he insisted--"the things I want to do----Do
you think I'll do them?"
"I think"--she said slowly--"in fact I'm certain that you'll do them,
if you really mean to."
"That's what you think of me?"
"That's what I think of you."
"Then it's all right," he said. "For what I think of _you_ is that
you'd never say a thing you didn't really mean."
They parted at the turn of the road, where, as he again reminded her,
he had seen her first.
Going home by himself over the moor, Rowcliffe wondered whether he
hadn't missed his opportunity.
He might have told her that he cared for her. He might have asked her
if she cared. If he hadn't, it was only because there was no need to
be precipitate. He felt rather than knew that she was sure of him.
Plenty of time. Plenty of time. He was so sure of _her_.
XXX
Plenty of time. The last week of January passed. Through the first
weeks of February Rowcliffe was kept busy, for sickness was still in
the Dale.
Whether he required it or not, Rowcliffe had a respite from decision.
No opportunity arose. If he looked in at the Vicarage on Wednesdays
it was to drink a cup of tea in a hurry while his man put his horse
in the trap.
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