“She is very kind,” I answered, “but I am not alone, you see;—and those whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.”
“Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if you refuse.”
I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but, however, I promised to come.
“What a sweet evening this is!” observed he, looking round upon the sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and majestic clumps of trees. “And what a paradise you live in!”
“It is a lovely evening,” answered I; and I sighed to think how little I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale was to me—how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes. Whether Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a half-hesitating, sympathising seriousness of tone and manner, he asked if I had lately heard from Mr. Huntingdon.
“Not lately,” I replied.
“I thought not,” he muttered, as if to himself, looking thoughtfully on the ground.
“Are you not lately returned from London?” I asked.
“Only yesterday.”
“And did you see him there?”