“Of course I should,” he replied.  “Of course I should be sorry.  Do you paint me in your mind the little boy dropped in and out of a love affair?”

“Oh no.”

“Then why say that?  Of course I should be sorry.  Because you and I couldn’t fit things properly together—­”

“Is that how it seems to you now?” she interrupted.

“Well, could we?  Is it any good going over it all again?  Did you ever imagine me to be the type of man who would consent to being followed, as you followed me that night?  I can’t suppose you did; otherwise, would you have tried to hide it from me?  But I don’t lose any friendly regard for you because of that.”

“You don’t object to being here, then?” she asked eagerly.

“No; certainly not!  Why should I?”

“Would you come again if nothing of that were ever mentioned any more between us—­would you come again?”

“Yes, willingly.  Now that I see that your intention is to be perfectly reasonable, I would—­willingly.  Why not?  I don’t see why we should be enemies.”

“No,” said Sally quickly; “neither do I—­neither do I.”

He drank through his tea.  One mouthful—­they were such tiny cups; but that is the way a man takes his entertainment.

“Have a good time down at Cailsham?” he asked presently.

He felt more at his ease.  She was taking it well—­so much better than he expected.

“Oh, not very good.  I have told you, haven’t I, that I don’t get on very well with my people.”

“Of course; yes.  Isn’t that rather a pity?”

Possibly conscience was plying its spurs.  There was some suggestion underlying the quietness of her manner which he found to bring a sense of uneasiness.  He would have preferred that she had got on well at Cailsham.  He would rather that she had taken a fancy to Devenish.  But she was reasonable—­extremely reasonable.  He had nothing to grumble at.  Yet he could not get away from the sense of something that made each word they said drag slowly, unnaturally into utterance.  He tried to shake it from him.

“Well, what is it you’ve got to speak to me about?” he asked in a fresh tone of voice, as if with a jerk they were starting again over lighter ground.

“Won’t you wait till you’ve finished your tea?” she asked.

“I have finished.”

“No more?”

“No, thanks.  Do you mind my smoking?”

She lit a match for him in answer—­held it out, waiting while he extracted the cigarette from his case.

“Now tell me,” he said, when she had thrown the match away.

She gazed for a moment in the grate, at the kettle breathing contentedly on the gas stove.

“I’m lonely,” she said, turning to his eyes.

He met her gaze as well as he could.  He knew she was lonely.  Conscience—­conscience that no strength of will could override—­had often pricked him on that point.  But what was a conscience?  He would not have believed himself guilty of the weakness at any other time.  He gave no rein to it.