'
She listened, charmed into stillness. Here was an echo of his
outpouring in the darkness of that hour by the Monks' Pool, but these
words were closer, dearer. She felt for that moment that he did indeed
carry her in his arms and that she was glad to be there. He spoke so
quietly, he was so certain of his love that she was exalted and
abashed. She did not deserve all this, yet he knew she was hard as
well as bright, he knew her nose turned up. Perhaps there was nothing
he did not know.
He went on simply, without effort. 'And though I'm ugly and a fool, I
can't be hurt whatever you choose to do. What you do isn't you.' He
touched himself. 'The you is here. So it doesn't matter about the
ring. It doesn't matter about Francis Sales.'
She said on a caught breath and in a whisper, 'What about him?'
He looked at her and made a slight movement with the hands hanging at
his sides, a little flicking movement, as though he brushed something
away. 'I think perhaps you are going to marry him,' he said deeply.
Her head went up. 'Who told you that?' she demanded.
'Nobody. Nobody tells me anything.'
'Because nobody knows,' she said scornfully. 'I haven't seen him
since--' She hesitated. This Charles knew everything, and he said for
her, rather wearily, very quietly, 'Since his wife died. No. But you
will.'
'Yes,' she said defiantly, 'I expect I shall. I hope I shall.'
A shudder passed through Charles Batty's big frame and the words,
'Don't marry him,' reached her ears like a distant muttering of a
storm.
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