“Yes, so it might. I can tell you you haven’t come into exactly a tame part, even in our southern counties, which reminds me that I didn’t sufficiently rub it into you that you would have to—well—er—rough it a bit.”
“If you had, that would have made it better still,” was the answer. “I prefer country places that are not too civilised.”
“That’s fortunate,” rejoined Mervyn with a pleased smile, “for you’ll be exactly suited as far as that goes, in my shack.”
Up another steep bit of road at a foot’s pace. It was quite dusk now, but a golden moon, at half, rising over the tree-tops, threw a glitter upon the frosty banks. Quite close by an owl hooted.
“Oh, but this is too lovely for anything,” cried Melian. “By the way, what on earth are people talking about when they talk about the hoot of an owl being dismal. Why, it’s melodious to a degree.”
“Great minds skip together, dear. That’s just what I think.”
In his own mind the speaker was thinking something else; thinking it too, with a great glow of satisfaction. They would get on splendidly together. All her ideas, so far expressed, were the exact counterpart of his own. What a gold mine he had lighted on when he had opened Violet Clinock’s letter but a couple of days back. Then he became aware that Melian had turned, with a quick movement, and was gazing at him with a curious—he even fancied half-startled—look.
“That was exactly one of father’s expressions,” she said slowly. “And—do you know, Uncle Seward, you are so like him.”
“Am I, dear?” was the answer, made very gently. “All the better, because then I shall be all the more able, as far as possible, to replace him. But—here we are—at home.”
The waggonette had topped the rise, and was now descending a similarly wood-fringed road. On the left front extended another long, narrow, triangular expanse of ice; set in its sombre, tree-framed encasing. Below the broad end of this a light or two gleamed.