"There's trouble somewhere," she said. "I can feel it." She stood up, lifted her arms to their utmost stretch, and dropped her hands on the high mantelshelf. "But I can't find it. It can't be yet." Suddenly she seemed to remember him, and spoke with a friendly brusqueness. "Will you come to the fire? I'll fetch a log."
"Allow me."
"No, I'll do it. Sit down. You don't look like shifting lumps of wood. You're town-bred, aren't you?"
"Yes." He felt himself a sinner.
"And you've been all over the world, perhaps."
"No, no, indeed I haven't. I wish I had."
"What d'you wish that for? I've never been in a train in my life."
"You interest me. You have never wished to travel?"
"Never yet. The time may come, though I have not seen it coming. What would I want to travel for? There's men and women in these parts, and God's earth; there's nothing elsewhere that I know of. I wouldn't say they're wrong who run about looking for things they'll never find; it's the way they're made, and they've got to work that way, but I can find all I want, sitting at my kitchen door."
"You're fortunate."