'I was. Well, we won't quarrel about it.'

Inside the house the bell rang for breakfast. We turned. As I drew
back to let her go in, she stopped.

'Peter,' she said.

She began to speak quickly.

'Peter, let's be sensible. Why should we let this embarrass us,
this being together here? Can't we just pretend that we're two old
friends who parted through a misunderstanding, and have come
together again, with all the misunderstanding cleared away--friends
again? Shall we?'

She held out her hand. She was smiling, but her eyes were grave.

'Old friends, Peter?'

I took her hand.

'Old friends,' I said.

And we went in to breakfast. On the table, beside my plate, was
lying a letter from Cynthia.