And it struck Rowcliffe, as it had frequently struck him
before, how good her face was.
She held out her hand to him and looked at him.
And as if only then she had seen in his face the signs of a suffering
she had been unaware of, her eyes rounded in a sudden wonder of
distress. They said in their goodness and their candor, "Oh, I see how
horribly you've suffered. I didn't know and I'm so sorry." Then they
looked away, and it was like the quiet withdrawal of a hand that
feared lest in touching it should hurt him.
Mary began to talk of the weather and of Essy and of Essy's baby, as
if her eyes had never seen anything at all. Then, just as they parted,
she said, "When are you coming to see us again?" as if he had been to
see them only the other day.
He said he _would_ come as soon as he was asked.
And Mary reflected, as one arranging a multitude of engagements.
"Well, then--let me see--can you come to tea on Friday? Or Monday?
Father'll be at home both days."
And Rowcliffe said thanks, he'd come on Friday.
Mary went on to the cottage and Rowcliffe to his surgery.
He wondered why she hadn't said a word about Gwenda. He supposed it
was because she knew that there was nothing she could say that would
not hurt him.
And he said to himself, "What a nice girl she is. What a thoroughly
nice girl."
* * * * *
But what he wanted, though he dreaded it, was news of Gwenda.
Pages:
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215