I think what was in my mind must have shown in my face, must have subtly flattered him, for, when I looked at him, he was giving me a look of genuine friendly kindliness. “This is—perfect, Langdon,” said I. “And I think I'm a judge.”
“Glad you like it,” said he, trying to dissemble his satisfaction in so strongly impressing me.
“You must take me through your house sometime,” I went on. “I'm going to build soon. No—don't be afraid I'll imitate. I'm too vain for that. But I want suggestions. I'm not ashamed to go to school to a master—to anybody, for that matter.”
“Why do you build?” said he. “A town house is a nuisance. If I could induce my wife to take the children to the country to live, I'd dispose of this.”
“That's it—the wife,” said I.
“But you have no wife. At least—”
“No,” I replied with a laugh. “Not yet. But I'm going to have.”
I interpreted his expression then as amused cynicism. But I see a different meaning in it now. And I can recall his tone, can find a strained note which then escaped me in his usual mocking drawl.
“To marry?” said he. “I haven't heard of that.”
“Nor no one else,” said I.