They had reached the hedge that marked the boundary for the Marston estate; there was a gate in it, and they walked towards it. They stood for a moment, her arm still in his, looking at the quiet village that lay before them. Then Roland dropped her arm and leaned against the gate.
“Yes, there’d been a row,” he said, “and everything was going wrong, and I saw myself for the rest of my life a clerk adding up figures in a bank.”
He paused, realizing the analogy between that day and this. Then, as now, destiny had seemed to be closing in on him, robbing him of freedom and the chance to make of his life anything but a gray subservience. He had evaded destiny then, but it had caught him now. And he leaned on the gate, hardly seeing the laborers trudging up the village street, talking in the porch of the public-house; their women returning home with their purchases for Sunday’s dinner.
Again Muriel was oppressed by his silence.
“I remember Gerald telling us about it,” she said, “and I was excited to see what you’d be like.”
“And what did you think of me when you saw me?”
“Oh, I was a little girl then”; she laughed nervously, for his eyes were fixed on her face and she felt that she was blushing.
“Yes, but what did you think?” he repeated; “tell me.”
Her fingers plucked nervously at her skirt; she felt frightened, and it was absurd to be frightened with Roland, one of her oldest friends.
“Oh, it’s silly! I was only a little girl then. What does it matter what I thought? As a matter of fact,” and she flung out the end of her confession carelessly, as though it meant nothing, “as a matter of fact, I thought you were the most wonderful boy I’d ever seen.” And she tried to laugh a natural, off-hand laugh that would make an end of this absurd situation, but the laugh caught in her throat, and she went suddenly still, her eyes fixed on Roland’s. They looked at each other and read fear in the other’s eyes, but in Roland’s eyes fear was mingled with a desperate entreaty, a need, an overmastering need of her. His tongue seemed too big for his mouth, and when at last he spoke, his voice was dry.
She could say nothing. She stood still, held by the gray eyes that never wavered.
“What do you think of me now?” he repeated.