Sally gave him a smile. It was as
sweet and innocent as it had ever been.
"You do take a time to dress yourself," she said. "I thought you was never
coming."
There was not a particle of difference in her manner. He had expected some
change, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the way
she treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; but
there was nothing. She was exactly the same as before. They walked towards
the sea all together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but she
was always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and
gentle. She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it. Philip
was astounded. He had expected the incident of the night before to have
caused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing had
happened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a little
girl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while he
chatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought for an explanation. He
wondered whether Sally meant the affair to be forgotten. Perhaps her
senses had run away with her just as his had, and, treating what had
occurred as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that she
had decided to put the matter out of her mind. It was ascribing to her a
power of thought and a mature wisdom which fitted neither with her age nor
with her character.
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