But you were absurdly the same. And then when you poured the cider out
on to poor Gerty's skirt----"
"Was that one of my childish customs?" he asked. "I'd forgotten."
"I nearly stood up and shook hands."
"I'm glad you didn't."
"I thought you'd feel like that. I remembered that you had been rather a
touchy little boy----"
"I was thinking of your friends. Howard, for instance."
"Why, do you know Howard?"
"By sight."
"If you've never even spoken to him you can't, of course, tell what he
would have felt. Do you mind walking home with me? I don't live far
from here, and we can talk better."
He held his ground, obstinate and defiant. It was unjust that anyone,
knowing himself to be brilliantly clever, should yet be made an oaf by an
incident so trivial.
"I'm sorry. I don't see what we can have to talk about. I'm not keen on
childish recollections. I haven't time for them. And it's fairly
obvious we don't move in the same set and are not likely to meet again."
He burst out rudely. "I suppose you were just curious----"
"Of course. You'd be curious if you found me selling flowers in
Piccadilly. You'd come up and say: 'allo! Francey, what have you been
doing with yourself?' And you'd have tried to give me a leg up, if it
only ran to buying a gardenia for old times' sake."
He suspected her of poking fun at him. And yet there was that subtle
underlying seriousness about her and a frank, disarming kindliness.
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