George was before her.
She cried brightly: "Why, how early you are!" and ran to him--very
pretty in her white dress: at her breast a rose, the poem fluttering
in her hand.
"Yes; for once before you."
George's tone did not give back her mood, purposely keyed high. She
played on it again: "Turning a new leaf?"
He drummed at the turf with his heel: "Yes--for to-day." He threw out
a hand towards her: "But in the same old book. I've had eight--nine
years of it, and now there are three more months."
"Poor George! But only three months, think how they will fly!"
He was desperately gloomy: "I haven't your imagination. Each single
day of them will mean a morning--here; a night--here."
"Oh, is it so hard?"
"Yes, now. It's pretty deadly now. You know, when I wasn't precisely
killing myself with overwork, I didn't mind so much. When it was three
or four years, anyway, before I could possibly be free, a few extra
months or so through failing an exam, didn't trouble me. But this is
different. I was right up against getting clear of all this"--he
comprehended garden and house in a sweep of the hand--"counted it a
dead certainty--and here I am pitched back again."
"But, George, you did work so hard this time. It isn't as though you
had to blame yourself." She put a clinging hand into his arm.
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