A faint smile stirred her lips. "You told me once that I ought to be content with—other relationships. With mankind in general."
"I suppose I did say something of that sort. The thought has often been a comfort to me in hours of loneliness. But the nearer tie is not wrong. If that can be, I at least shall not be lonely any more, or in need of comfort."
"And I too—"
The three little words slipped out involuntarily and were checked. Mr. Willoughby waited in vain for more.
Again they walked in silence, reaching a piece of open common, where the wind was so strong as to make walking difficult, and speech almost impossible. Getting beyond it, they were again in a sheltered lane, with high banks, and Mr. Willoughby said, "Would you rather be alone, or may I walk with you still?"
"If you like," she said shyly.
"Then I like to stay. Perhaps I ought to tell you something else, and that is that I am well off as to money. I have a comfortable house in Bloomsbury, and if you like it we will set up a little cottage in the country—here or elsewhere. You should see your old friends as often as you wished. Of course there would be no more dressmaking—except for your own amusement."
"I am fond of dressmaking. I should like to teach others how to do it, to help them on—perhaps some poor girls in London," Mildred said dreamily, unaware how much the words would mean to him. It was almost an admission of what her answer would be. "And Jessie—I have undertaken to teach Jessie. I cannot leave that half done."
"There would be no need. She should learn still—either from you or from some one else. Whatever you wanted done, in the way of giving help to others, I would try to manage for you."
Mildred stood still. "I think I should like to go home now," she said, and they turned.