“I shan’t forget,” said Hector Blunt. He added, in a sudden burst of communicativeness: “Time I went. I’m no good in this sort of life. Haven’t got the manners for it. I’m a rough fellow, no use in society. Never remember the things one’s expected to say. Yes, time I went.”
“But you’re not going at once,” cried Flora. “Not—not while we’re in all this trouble. Oh! please. If you go—” She turned away a little.
“You want me to stay?” asked Blunt. He spoke deliberately but quite simply.
“We all—”
“I meant you personally,” said Blunt, with directness.
Flora turned slowly back again and met his eyes. “I want you to stay,” she said, “if—if that makes any difference.”
“It makes all the difference,” said Blunt.
There was a moment’s silence. They sat down on the stone seat by the goldfish pond. It seemed as though neither of them knew quite what to say next.
“It—it’s such a lovely morning,” said Flora at last. “You know, I can’t help feeling happy, in spite—in spite of everything. That’s awful, I suppose?”
“Quite natural,” said Blunt. “Never saw your uncle until two years ago, did you? Can’t be expected to grieve very much. Much better to have no humbug about it.”
“There’s something awfully consoling about you,” said Flora. “You make things so simple.”
“Things are simple as a rule,” said the big-game hunter.