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Eight
I
After tea John said to Henrietta, “Come for a walk,” and Lady Angkatell said that she must show
Gerda the rock garden though of course it was quite the wrong time of year.
Walking with John, thought Henrietta, was as unlike walking with Edward as anything could
be.
With Edward one seldom did more than potter. Edward, she thought, was a born potterer.
Walking with John, it was all she could do to keep up, and by the time they got up to Shovel
Down she said breathlessly: “It’s not a marathon, John!”
He slowed down and laughed.
“Am I walking you off your feet?”
“I can do it—but is there any need? We haven’t got a train to catch. Why do you have this
ferocious energy? Are you running away from yourself?”
He stopped dead. “Why do you say that?”
Henrietta looked at him curiously.
“I didn’t mean anything particular by it.”
John went on again, but walking more slowly.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I’m tired. I’m very tired.”
She heard the lassitude in his voice.
“How’s the Crabtree?”
“It’s early days to say, but I think, Henrietta, that I’ve got the hang of things. If I’m right”—his
footsteps began to quicken—“a lot of our ideas will be revolutionized—we’ll have to reconsider
the whole question of hormone secretion—”
“You mean that there will be a cure for Ridgeway’s Disease? That people won’t die?”
“That, incidentally.”
What odd people doctors were, thought Henrietta. Incidentally!
“Scientifically, it opens up all sorts of possibilities!”
He drew a deep breath. “But it’s good to get down here—good to get some air into your lungs—
good to see you.” He gave her one of his sudden quick smiles. “And it will do Gerda good.”
“Gerda, of course, simply loves coming to The Hollow!”
“Of course she does. By the way, have I met Edward Angkatell before?”
“You’ve met him twice,” said Henrietta dryly.
“I couldn’t remember. He’s one of those vague, indefinite people.”
“Edward’s a dear. I’ve always been very fond of him.”
“Well, don’t let’s waste time on Edward! None of these people count.”
Henrietta said in a low voice:
“Sometimes, John—I’m afraid for you!”
“Afraid for me—what do you mean?”
He turned an astonished face upon her.
“You are so oblivious—so—yes, blind.”
“Blind?”
“You don’t know—you don’t see—you’re curiously insensitive! You don’t know what other
people are feeling and thinking.”
“I should have said just the opposite.”
“You see what you’re looking at, yes. You’re—you’re like a searchlight. A powerful beam
turned on to the one spot where your interest is, and behind it and each side of it, darkness!”
“Henrietta, my dear, what is all this?”
“It’s dangerous, John. You assume that everyone likes you, that they mean well to you. People
like Lucy, for instance.”
“Doesn’t Lucy like me?” he said, surprised. “I’ve always been extremely fond of her.”
“And so you assume that she likes you. But I’m not sure. And Gerda and Edward—oh, and
Midge and Henry. How do you know what they feel towards you?”
“And Henrietta? Do I know how she feels?” He caught her hand for a moment. “At least—I’m
sure of you.”
She took her hand away.
“You can be sure of no one in this world, John.”
His face had grown grave.
“No, I won’t believe that. I’m sure of you and I’m sure of myself. At least—” His face changed.
“What is it, John?”
“Do you know what I found myself saying today? Something quite ridiculous. ‘I want to go
home.’ That’s what I said and I hadn’t the least idea what I meant by it.”
Henrietta said slowly: “You must have had some picture in your mind.”
He said sharply: “Nothing. Nothing at all!”
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