And he
knew that though what he had said was true, it had also sounded young and
sententious.
"You think I'm talking rot, don't you?"
"I only think you've changed," she answered, with a quick gravity. "Not
outside. Outside you're just a few feet bigger and the round lines have
become straight. But when you were a little boy you used to cry a good
deal."
"I don't see--how did you know?"
"I did know. There were certain smears--I don't think you liked having
your face washed--and a red, tired, look under the eyes. The point is
that now I can't imagine your ever having cried at all."
"I haven't." He calculated solemnly. "Not for more than twelve years.
I remember, because it was after I had played truant at the circus."
But he did not want to tell her about the circus. He stopped short and
looked at his watch in the lamplight.
"Nearly twelve. We've been prowling round this place for an hour. I've
got to get home and work. I thought you said you lived near here."
"I do. Over the way. The big house. I've two rooms on the top floor.
Rather jolly--and near St. Mary's----"
"What--what do you want with St. Mary's?"
But she had already begun to cross the road, and the wind, coming down a
side street with a shriek, sent her scudding before it like a leaf. She
was half-way up the grey stone steps before he overtook her. She turned
on him, the short ends of her hair flying wickedly.
"Of course, it's only right and natural that you should talk of nothing
but yourself.
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