She knew what he would say. He would tell
her, in that sulky way of his, how many weeks had passed since he had
seen her and, to avoid hearing that remark, she at once waved a hand
towards the clearing and said, 'Why have you done this?'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'To get money.'
'But they were my trees.'
'You never wrote,' he muttered.
She made a gesture, quickly controlled. Long ago when, in the first
exultation of their love and their sense of richness, they had marked
out the limits of their intercourse, so that they might keep some sort
of faith with Christabel and preserve what was precious to themselves,
it had been decided that they were not to meet by appointment, they
were not to speak of love, no letters were to be exchanged, and though
time had bent the first and second rules, the last had been kept with
rigour. It was understood, but periodically she had to submit to
Francis Sales's complaint, 'You never wrote.'
'So you cut down the trees,' she said half playfully.
'Why didn't you write?'
'Oh, Francis, you know quite well.'
He was looking at the ground; he had not once looked at her since her
greeting. 'You go off on a holiday, enjoying yourself, while I--who
did you go with?'
'With Henrietta,' Rose said softly.
'Oh, that girl.'
'Yes, that girl. But here I am. I have come back.' She seemed to
invite him to be glad. 'And,' she went on calmly, feeling that it did
not matter what she said, 'what a queer world to come back to.
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