"Yes," said Temple, making little mounds of sand with the edge of his hand as he lay, "I never expected to have such days in this world as I've had here with you. We've grown to be very good friends here, haven't we?" "We were very good friends in Paris," said Betty, remembering the letter that had announced his departure. "But it wasn't the same," he persisted. "When did we talk in Paris as we've talked here?" "I talked to you, even in Paris, more than I've ever talked to anyone else, all the same," said Betty. "Thank you," he said; "that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." "It wasn't meant to be nice," said Betty; "it's true. Don't you know there are some people you never can talk to without wondering what they'll think of you, and whether you hadn't better have said something else? It's nothing to do with whether you like them or not," she went on, thinking of talks with Vernon, many talks--and in all of them she had been definitely and consciously on guard. "You may like people quite frightfully, and yet you can't talk to them." "Yes," he said, "but you couldn't talk to a person you disliked, could you? Real talk, I mean?" "Of course not," said Betty. "Do you know I'm dreadfully hungry!" It was after lunch that Temple said: "When are you going home, Miss Desmond?" She looked up, for his use of her name was rare. "I don't know: some time," she answered absently. But the question ran through her mind like a needle drawing after it the thread on which were strung all the little longings for Long Barton--for the familiar fields and flowers, that had gathered there since she first saw the silver may and the golden broom at Bourron station. That was nearly a month ago. What a month it had been--the gleaming river, the neat intimate simplicity of the little culture, white roads, and roses and rocks, and more than all--trees, and trees and trees again. And with all this--Temple. He lodged at Montigny, true. And she at Grez. But each day brought to her door the best companion in the world. He had never even asked how she came to be at Grez. After that first, "Where's your party?" he had guarded his lips. It had seemed so natural, and so extremely fortunate that he should be here. If she had been all alone she would have allowed herself to think too much of Vernon--of what might have been. "I am going to England next week!" he said. Betty was shocked to perceive that this news hurt her. Well, why shouldn't it hurt her? She wasn't absolutely insensible to friendship, she supposed. And sensibility to friendship was nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary. "I shall miss you most awfully," said she with the air of one flaunting a flag. "I wish you'd go home," he said. "Haven't you had enough of your experiment, or whatever it was, yet?" "I thought you'd given up interfering," she said crossly. At least she meant to speak crossly. "I thought I could say anything to you now without your--your not understanding."