she followed him in innocent anger, without afterthought. She stood
before him with her slim white hands clasped together, resting
against her black dress, a sombre, slight young figure in the
moonlight, looking at him with reproachful eyes.

He hesitated a second before answering her. She was only nineteen;
she had been born and brought up in the Valley of Repose amidst the
simple islanders. She knew nothing of the world and its ways. And
Fitz, with the burden of the unique situation suddenly thrust upon
him, was, in his chivalrous youthfulness, intensely anxious to avoid
giving her anything to look back to in after years when she should
be a woman. He was tenderly solicitous for the feelings which would
come later, though they were absent now.

"Because," he answered, "I am not good at saying things. I don't
know how to tell you how sorry I am for you."

She turned away and looked across to the hills at the other side of
the valley, a rugged outline against the sky.

"But I know all that," she said softly, "without being told."

A queer smile passed over his sunburnt face, as if she had
unintentionally and innocently made things more difficult for him.

"And," she continued, "it is--oh, so lonely."

She made an almost imperceptible little movement towards him. Like
the child that she was, she was yearning for sympathy and comfort.
"I know--I know," he said.