because she could not fathom her own feelings.

"Keith," she said, presently. "I'm sorry to be a fool."

"You're _not_ a fool, old dear," he assured her. "But I'm a beast."

"Yes, I think you are," Jenny acknowledged. There was a long pause. She
tried to wipe her eyes, and at last permitted Keith to do that for her,
flinching at contact with the handkerchief, but aware all the time of
some secret joy. When she could speak more calmly, she went on: "Suppose
we don't talk any more about being...what we are...and forgiving, and
all that. We don't mean it. We only say it..."

"Well, I mean it--about being a beast," Keith said humbly. "That's
because I made you cry."

"Well," said Jenny, agreeingly, "you can be a beast--I mean, think you
are one. And if I'm miserable I shall think I've been a fool. But we'll
cut out about forgiving. Because I shall never really forgive you. I
couldn't. It'll always be there, till I'm an old woman--"

"Only till you're happy, dear," Keith told her. "That's all that means."

"I can't think like that. I feel it's in my bones. But you're going
away. Where are you going? D'you know? Is it far?"

"We're going back to the South. Otherwise it's too cold for yachting.
And Templecombe wants to keep out of England at the moment. He's safe on
the yacht. He can't be got at. There's some wretched predatory woman of
title pursuing him...."