A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. For a long time neither spoke again. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. See paragraph 1. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “There are a good many Whites in London. I've come to take you back home. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time. She was not obliged to go to the Tredgold College, because as yet the College had not settled down for the session. I am no one, Gérard.
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