“All right.  But wouldn’t my silence make it rather more awkward?”

“I will take care of the awkwardness, thank you.  And you promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“That is very good of you.”  She put her hand impulsively across the goat-skin, and gave his, with which he took it in some surprise, a quick clasp.  Then they were both silent, and they got out of the carryall under Mrs. Westangle’s porte-cochere without having exchanged another word.  Miss Shirley did not bow to him or look at him in parting.

X.

Verrian kept seeing before his inner eyes the thin face of the girl, dimmed rather than lighted with her sick yes.  When she should be stronger, there might be a pale flush in it, like sunset on snow, but Verrian had to imagine that.  He did not find it difficult to imagine many things about the girl, whom, in another mood, a more judicial mood, he might have accused of provoking him to imagine them.  As it was, he could not help noting to that second self which we all have about us, that her confidences, such as they were, had perhaps been too voluntary; certainly they had not been quite obligatory, and they could not be quite accounted for, except upon the theory of nerves not yet perfectly under her control.  To be sure, girls said all sorts of things to one, ignorantly and innocently; but she did not seem the kind of girl who, in different circumstances, would have said anything that she did not choose or that she did not mean to say.  She had been surprisingly frank, and yet, at heart, Verrian would have thought she was a very reticent person or a secret person—­that is, mentally frank and sentimentally secret; possibly she was like most women in that.  What he was sure of was that the visual impression of her which he had received must have been very vivid to last so long in his consciousness; all through his preparations for going down to afternoon tea her face remained subjectively before him, and when he went down and found himself part of a laughing and chattering company in the library he still found it, in his inner sense, here, there, and yonder.

He was aware of suffering a little disappointment in Mrs. Westangle’s entire failure to mention Miss Shirley, though he was aware that his disappointment was altogether unreasonable, and he more reasonably decided that if she knew anything of his arrival, or the form of it, she had too much of the making of a grande dame to be recognizant of it.  He did not know from her whether she had meant to send for him at the station or not, or whether she had sent her carriage back for him when he did not arrive in it at first.  Nothing was left in her manner of such slight specialization as she had thrown into it when, at the Macroyds’, she asked him down to her house party; she seemed, if there were any difference, to have acquired an additional ignorance of who and what he was, though she twittered and flittered