It was no mere pose on his part--of that she felt assured--but something ingrained, grafted on to his very nature by the happenings of life.
Rather girlishly she essayed to combat it.
"You're not at the end of life yet." He smiled at her--a sudden, rare smile of extraordinary sweetness.
Her intention was so unmistakable--so touchingly ingenious, as are all youth's attempts to heal a bitterness that lies beyond its ken.
"There are no more lucky dips left in life's tub for me, I'm afraid," he said gently.
Sara seized upon the opening afforded.
"Of course not--if you persist in keeping to the role of looker-on," she retorted.
He regarded her gravely.
"Unfortunately, I've no longer any right to dip my head into the tub.
Even if I chanced to draw a prize--I should only have to put it back again." The quiet irrevocableness of his answer shook her optimism.
"I--don't understand," she said hesitatingly.
"No ?"--his tones hardened suddenly.

"It's just as well you shouldn't, perhaps." The abrupt alteration in his manner took her by surprise.

All at once, he seemed to have retreated into his shell, to have become again the curt, ironic individual of their first meeting.
"I think," he went on, tranquilly ignoring the mixture of chagrin and amazement in her face, "I think I hear the car coming round.

You had better put on your shoes and stockings again--they'll be dry now--and then we can start.

It's no longer raining." Sara felt as though she had been suddenly relegated to a position of utter unimportance.