The tone puzzled him.
"I don't understand." "No wonder, old fellow! I don't understand myself." There was another short silence.

Andrew stood with his almost sightless eyes turned upon his friend, and Duncombe was looking up through the elm trees to the Hall.

He was trying to fancy her as she must have appeared to this man who dwelt alone, walking down the meadow in the evening.
"No," he repeated softly, "I don't understand myself.

You've known me for a long time, Andrew.

You wouldn't write me down as altogether a sentimental ass, would you ?" "I should not, George.