“No, nothing—if you had left off loving me? Have you? Is it true?”
“Good-bye!” she said. “You are staying at the ‘Ship’?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let’s part in anger. I shall be on the sea-wall in the morning. Let’s part friends, then.”
In the morning Andrew went into the fresh air. The trees, still gold in calmer homes, stood almost leafless in wild, windy Lymchurch. He stood in the sunlight, and in spite of himself some sort of gladness came to him through the crisp October air. Then the ping of a bicycle bell sounded close behind him, and there was Stephen.
They shook hands, and Stephen’s eyebrows went up.
“Is it all right?” he asked. “I knew you’d come here when I came home last night and found you’d had my letter.”
“No; it’s not all right. She won’t have me.”
“Why?”
“Pride or revenge, or something. Don’t let’s talk about it.”
“All right. I want some breakfast; we left town by the 7.20. I’m starving.”
“Who are ‘we’?”
