d her example, and collected the
broken bits, while she put the rack back in its place, and certain
splinters in theirs, until the locker shut without showing much damage.
Pocket was left with the fragmentary negatives on his hands.

"I should throw those away," said Phillida. "And now, by the time you're
ready to go, I'll have a cup of tea ready for you."

They faced each other in the rosy light, now doubly diluted by the open
door, and Pocket did not move. He wanted to say something first, and he
was too shy to say it. Shyness had come upon him all at once; hitherto
they had both been like young castaways, finely regardless of appearances,
he of his bare feet and throat, she of her dressing-gown and her bedroom
slippers. She was unconscious or careless still, as with a brother; but
he had become the very embodiment of mauvaise honte, an awful example of
the awkward age; and it was all the fault of what he suddenly felt he
simply must say.

"But--but I don't want to leave you!" he blurted out at last.

"But I want you to," she returned promptly and firmly, though not without
a faint smile.

It was leaving her with a villain that he minded; but he could not get
that out, except thus bluntly, nor could he denounce the doctor now as he
had done when his blood was up. Besides, the man was a different man to
his niece; all that redeemed him went out to her. Pocket did not think he
was peculiar there; in fact, he thought romantically enough about the
girl, with her dark hair all over her pink dressing-gown, and ivory
insteps peeping out of those soft slippers especially when the vision was
lost for ever, and he upstairs making himself as presentable as he could
in a few minutes. But it seemed she was busy in the same way, and she
took longer over it. He found the breakfast things on the table, the
kettle on the gas-stove, but no Phillida to make the tea. He could not
help wishing she would be quick; if he was going, the sooner he went the
better, but he was terribly divided in his desires. He hated the thought
of deserting a comrade, who was also a girl, and such a girl! He could
only face it with the fixed intention of coming back to the rescue of his
heroine, he the hero of their joint romance. But for his own immediate
freedom he was already unheroically eager. And yet he could deliberately
fit the broken negatives together, on the white tablecloth, partly to pass
the time, partly out of a boyish bravado