She waited.

When she and Edgar and he walked home together from chapel or from the literary society in Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox nowadays, was for her.

She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with Paul, his Friday nights, his days working in the fields.

For her Friday nights and her French lessons were gone.

She was nearly always alone, walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting.
And he wrote to her frequently.
One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony.