He sat flinging lumps of earth in the stream.
"We will go and have tea here ?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered.
They chattered over irrelevant subjects during tea.

He held forth on the love of ornament--the cottage parlour moved him thereto--and its connection with aesthetics.

She was cold and quiet.

As they walked home, she asked: "And we shall not see each other ?" "No--or rarely," he answered.
"Nor write ?" she asked, almost sarcastically.
"As you will," he answered.

"We're not strangers--never should be, whatever happened.