From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. “I had a faint idea once that things were as you say they are, but the affair of the ring—of the unexpected ring—puzzled me. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Reverse psychology or something, it’s like she was trying to draw him nearer by pushing him away. Since Jack has left us, what does it matter whether he's pleased or not?" At this moment, a whistle was heard. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. "Good-bye, young man; and good luck.
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