And again
it was as if the old Godfrey of long ago, the Godfrey that had been
impetuous, hot-tempered, unreasonable, and yet so infinitely dear to her,
who stood there, so near to her that had she moved, he must have touched
her. She sat down, and unseen by him, she put her two hands on the edge
of the well-scrubbed table, and pressed her fingers down tightly. Then
she smiled up at him, and shook her head.
"You're treating me like a stranger," he protested doggedly; "however
badly I've behaved, I've not deserved that."
He was looking down at her hair, the lovely fair hair which had always
been her greatest beauty--the one beauty she now shared with Rosamund. He
wondered if it would ever grow long again. And yet now he told himself
that he did not want to see her different from what she had become.
"Treating you like a stranger? You're the first visitor we've had to stay
at Old Place since the Armistice."
As he said nothing, she went on, a little breathlessly, "D'you remember
what a lot of people used to come and go in the old days? That was one of
the nice things about Janet. She loved to entertain our friends, even
our acquaintances. But now we never have anybody.
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