First he reflected that he had not breathed a hint, either to her or his mother, as to what had passed. They both would believe that he had dropped all this. There would then be no arguing, that at least was a comfort. But there was a curious sense of isolation and division between him and the girl.
Yet, after all, he asked himself indignantly, what affair was it of hers? She was not his confessor; she was just a convent-bred girl who couldn’t understand. He would be aloof and polite. That was the attitude. And he would manage his own affairs.
He drew a few brisk draughts of smoke from his pipe and stood up. That was settled.
It was in this determined mood then that he stepped out on to the platform at the close of this wintry day, and saw Maggie, radiant in furs, waiting for him, with her back to the orange sunset.
These two did not kiss one another. It was thought better not. But he took her hand with a pleasant sense of welcome and homecoming.
“Auntie’s in the brougham,” she said. “There’s lots of room for the luggage on the top. … Oh! Laurie, how jolly this is!”
It was a pleasant two-mile drive that they had. Laurie sat with his back to the horses. His mother patted his knee once or twice under the fur rug, and looked at him with benevolent pleasure. It seemed at first a very delightful homecoming. Mrs. Baxter asked after Mr. Morton, Laurie’s coach, with proper deference.
But places have as strong a power of retaining associations as persons, and even as they turned down into the hamlet Laurie was aware that this was particularly true just now. He carefully did not glance out at Mr. Nugent’s shop, but it was of no use. The whole place was as full to him