Now I do not know anything that passed upon that terrace. How should I
know? Neither of them was likely to tell old Smith. And I wonder at the
clumsiness of novelists in pretending to reveal all that _he_ said, and
all that _she_ answered. But if I were such a clumsy novelist, I should
like to invent it all, and see if I couldn't make you believe every word
of it.
This is what I would invent.
The moment Adela caught sight of Harry, she cast one frightened glance up
to her father's windows, and stood waiting. He lifted his hat; and held
out his hand. She took it. Neither spoke. They turned together and walked
along the terrace.
"I am very sorry," said Harry at last.
"Are you? What for?"
"Because I got you into a scrape."
"Oh! I don't care."
"Don't you?"
"No; not a bit."
"I didn't mean it."
"What didn't you mean?"
"It did look like it, I know."
"Look like what?"
"Adela, you'll drive me crazy. It was all your fault."
"So I told papa, and he was angrier than ever."
"You angel! It wasn't your fault.
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