She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. What a God-forsaken fool he was! And dimly, out there somewhere in the South Seas—the beach! Already he sensed the fascination of the inevitable; and with this fascination came the idea of haste, to get there quickly and have done. Suspicion was in his face. Wood. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. “But where are you going? Lucy, you’re safe here. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. We have to hang about in the interval.
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