When Mary tried to lead
gently up to him, Rowcliffe shied. He wouldn't talk about himself any
more than he would talk about Gwenda.
But Mary didn't want to talk about Gwenda either now. So that her face
showed the faintest flicker of dismay when Rowcliffe suddenly began to
talk about her.
"Have you any idea," he said, "when your sister's coming back?"
"She won't be long," said Mary. "She's only gone to Upthorne village."
"I meant your other sister."
"Oh, Gwenda----"
Mary brooded. And the impression her brooding made on Rowcliffe was
that Mary knew something about Gwenda she did not want to tell.
"I don't think," said Mary gravely, "that Gwenda ever will come back
again. At least not if she can help it. I thought you knew that."
"I suppose I must have known."
He left it there.
Mary took up her knitting. She was making a little vest for Essy's
baby. Rowcliffe watched it growing under her hands.
"As I can't knit, do you mind my smoking?"
She didn't.
"If more women knitted," he said, "it would be a good thing. They
wouldn't be bothered so much with nerves."
"I don't do it for nerves. I haven't any," said Mary.
He laughed. "No, I don't think you have."
She fell into one of her gentle silences. A silence not of her own
brooding, he judged. It had no dreams behind it and no imagination
that carried her away. A silence, rather, that brought her nearer to
him, that waited on his mood.
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