"You're not angry, Pink dear?"
"There's nothing to be angry about," he said, stolidly. "Things have
been going on, with me, and staying where they've always been, with
you. That's all. I'm not very keen, you know, and I used to think
--Your people like me. I mean, they wouldn't--"
"Everybody likes you, Pink."
"Well, I'll trot along." He moved a step, hesitated. "Is there
anybody else, Lily?"
"Nobody."
"You won't mind if I hang around a bit, then? You can always send
me off when you are sick of me. Which you couldn't if you were fool
enough to marry me."
"Whoever does marry you, dear, will be a lucky woman."
In the end he stayed to luncheon, and managed to eat a very fair one.
But he had little lapses into silence, and Grace Cardew drew her own
shrewd conclusions.
"He's such a nice boy, Lily," she said, after he had gone. "And
your grandfather would like it. In a way I think he expects it."
"I'm not going to marry to please him, mother."
"But you are fond of Alston."
"I want to marry a man, mother. Pink is a boy. He will always be a
boy. He doesn't think; he just feels. He is fine and loyal and
honest, but I would loathe him in a month.
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