She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. ‘Monstrously unfair of you, Hilary. Yet she held her tongue. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time. Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. "You poor child!" said Prudence. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends.
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