“You’ll have to marry one of those young ladies one day,” she said abruptly.
“That’s out of the question, even if I was a marrying man.”
“Nonsense,” said Miriam, as they turned down the little pathway leading towards the village. Poor man, how cruel to encourage him to take up with one of those giggling dressy girls.
“D’you mean to say you’ve been never specially interested in anybody?”
“Yes. I never have.”
2
Ovingdean had to be faced. They were going to look at Ovingdean and then walk back to the boarding-house to tea. Now that she knew all about his home-life she would not be able to meet his eyes across the table. Two tired elm trees stood one on either side of the road at the entrance to the village. Here they all gathered and then went forward in a strolling party.
When they turned at last to walk home and fell again into couples as before, Miriam searched her empty mind for something to say about the dim, cool musty church, the strange silent deeps of it there amongst the great green downs, the waiting chairs, the cold empty pulpit and the little cold font, and the sunlit front of the old Grange where King Charles had taken refuge. Mr. Parrow would know she was speaking insincerely if she said anything about these things. There was a long, long walk ahead. For some time they walked in silence. “D’you know anything about architecture?” she said at last angrily ... cruel silly question. Of course he didn’t. But men she walked with ought to know about architecture and be able to tell her things.
“No. That’s a subject I don’t know anything about.”
“D’you like churches?”