Edwin shook his head.
With a scarcely perceptible movement of her glass, Hilda greeted her husband, peeping out at him as it were for a fraction of a second in a glint of affection. He was quite happy. They were all seated close together, Edwin opposite the other two at the large table. The single gas-jet, by the very inadequacy with which it lighted the scene of disorder, produced an effect of informal homeliness and fellowship that warmed the heart. Each of the three realised with pleasure that a new and promising friendship was in the making. They talked at length about the Musical Evenings, and Edwin said that he should buy some music, and Hilda asked him to obtain a history of music that Ingpen described with some enthusiasm, and the date of the first evening was settled,--Sunday week. And after uncounted minutes Ingpen remarked that he presumed he had better go.
"I have to cycle home," he announced once more.
"To-night?" Hilda exclaimed.
"No. This morning."
"All the way to Axe?"
"Oh, no! I'm three miles this side of Axe. It's only six and a half miles."
"But all those hills!"
"Pooh! Excellent for the muscles of the calf."
"Do you live alone, Mr. Ingpen?"