And yet it was characteristic of them both that on
the last day when, seated under a hedge at the top of the playing fields,
the school buildings a grey mist below them and the air tensely rigid with
heat, they said good-bye to one another, it was Cards who found all the
words.
Peter had nothing to say at all; he only clutched at tufts of grass, lugged
them from the earth and flung them before him. But Cards, as usual, rose to
the occasion.
"You know, Peter, it's been most splendid knowing you here. I don't think
I'd ever have got through Dawson's if it hadn't been for you. It's a hell
of a place and I suppose if the mater hadn't been abroad so much I should
never have stayed on. But it's no use making a fuss. Besides, it's only for
a little while--one will have forgotten all about it in a year's time."
Peter smiled. "You will, I shan't."
"Why, of course you will. And you must come and stay with us often. My
mother's most awfully anxious to know you. Won't it be splendid going out
to join her in Italy? It'll be a bit hot this time of year I expect."
Peter seemed to struggle with his words. "I say--Cards--you
won't--altogether--forget me?"
"Forget you! Why, good Lord, I'll be always writing. I'll have such lots to
tell you. I've never liked any one in all my life (this said with a great
sense of age) as I've liked you!"
He stood up and fumbled in his coat.
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