They had reached one of the winding forest roads which had been artificially cleared, and thus made into delightful drives or walks. High overhead the tall tree-tops met, and in the shade beneath, the gaze, turning to either side, met nothing but actual “forest primeval.”
“Why, in this way,” he answered, “Your own surroundings at home, from your account of it and your father’s, must be uncommonly like this; yet when you get here, among a lot of other people, and houses and gardens and tennis, and all that sort of thing, the first thing you do is to start off for a lonely walk in the forest.”
“Lonely walk? But I don’t feel lonely. You—are fairly good company.” And she flashed at him an uncommonly captivating smile.
“I? Oh, I am an accident. You would have gone anyhow, with or without me.”
With the words something struck him. Was he such an “accident” after all? Denham was not a conceited man, but he was no fool. He was a man of the world, and was perfectly well aware that from a “worldly goods” point of view he would be regarded as a “catch” by most women. Yet somehow, even if the fact of his being here was not accidental, the idea did not displease him—anything but. And he had known his present companion exactly three hours and a half.
“I suppose I should,” she answered. “As for the ‘other people,’ I don’t know that I care much about anybody. They’re a very good sort, and we’re civil to each other when we meet, and so on. But that’s about all. I’ve been so much alone, you see.”
“You remind me of the standing joke about the London ’bus driver—when he gets a day off he spends it riding about on top of another ’bus as a ‘fare,’ likewise the actor, under similar circumstances, goes to other theatres.”
Verna laughed. “Yes, I suppose I’m like that, too. But, do you know, I’m rather energetic—must always be moving.”
“So I should judge. It’s lovely here, but these dense growths of vegetation, especially down in a hollow like this, always strike me as miasmatic.”
Verna looked surprised.