“This feeling,” he protested, “is a different thing altogether. It’s pity⁠ ⁠… that’s what it is! And, of course, Gerda being so beautiful, pity doesn’t⁠ ⁠…”

Christie lifted up her head now, and sat back, hugging her knees and staring at him. He, too, changed his position, so that his shoulders leant against the lower bars of the gate. “It’s queer how natural it seems to be⁠ ⁠… to be with you like this,” he said slowly.

She gave a little nod. “I used to tell myself stories⁠ ⁠…” she began, searching his face intently as if what she wanted to say lay hidden in its lines. “I feel so different now,” she went on, “that it would be easy to tell you.⁠ ⁠…” Once more her voice sank into silence.

“It’s better to be alone,” he echoed, “unless you can think aloud. I’ve been walking about this fair-field all the afternoon and talking to everyone; but I couldn’t think aloud until this moment.”

They were both silent, staring helplessly at each other.