They laughed. Adeline was appeased. She took her husband's arm and drew
him to herself. Something warm and secret seemed to pass between them.
Anne said to herself: "That's how people look--" without finishing her
thought.
Lest she should feel shut out he turned to her.
"Well, are you glad to be back again, Anne?" he said.
"Glad? I'm never glad to be anywhere else. I've been counting the weeks
and the days and the minutes."
"The minutes?"
"Yes. In the train."
They had come up on to the flagged terrace. Anne looked round her.
"Where's Jerrold?" she said.
And they laughed again. "There's no doubt," said Uncle Robert, "about it
being the same Anne."
Robert and Colin were down at the Manor Farm. Eliot was in the
schoolroom, reading.
Jerrold and Anne sat together on the grass under the beech trees, alone.
They had got over the shock of the first encounter, when they met at
arms' length, not kissing, but each remembering, shyly, that they used
to kiss. If they had not got over the "difference," the change of Anne
from a child to a big girl, of Jerrold from a big boy to a man's height
and a man's voice, it was because, in some obscure way, that difference
fascinated them. The great thing was that underneath it they were both,
as Anne said, "the same."
"I don't know what I'd have done, Jerrold, if you hadn't been."
"You might have known I would be."
"I did know."
"I say, what a thundering lot of hair you've got. I like it."
"Do you like what Auntie Adeline calls my new nose?"
"Awfully."
She meditated. "Jerrold, do you remember Benjy?"
"Rather."
"Dear Benjy... Do you know, I can hardly believe I'm here. I never
thought I should come again."
"But why shouldn't you?"
"I don't know. Only I think every time something'll happen to prevent
me. I'm afraid of being ill or dying before I can get away. And they
might send me anywhere any day. It's awful to be so uncertain."
"Don't think about it. You're here now."
"Oh Jerrold, supposing it was the last time--"
"It isn't the last time. Don't spoil it by thinking."
"_You'd_ think if you were me."
"I say--you don't mean they're not decent to you?"
"Who, Grandmamma and Grandpapa? They're perfect darlings. So's Aunt
Emily. But they're awfully old and they can't play at anything, except
bridge. And it isn't the same thing at all. Besides, I don't--"