He sat looking at her.

He had no great amount of intellect, but he possessed an undue proportion of heart under the somewhat striking waistcoats which at all times characterised his attire.
"I'm terribly sorry for you," he said, his eyes very wide and round.
She gazed into space, past him.
"Do you--would you prefer to have me go ?" he stammered.
There was no reply.
"Because," he said miserably, "I take it that you haven't much use for me." No word from her.
"Sylvie ?" Silence; but she looked up at him.

"I haven't changed," he said, and the healthy colour turned him pink.

"I--just--wanted you to know.

I thought perhaps you might like to know----" "Why ?" Her voice was utterly unlike her own.
"Why ?" he repeated, getting redder.