He, too, was faintly disappointed and puzzled at the reticence of the letters.
Flora’s face, set in its sad composure, told him nothing of her feelings.
But the day following brought him enlightenment from Flora herself.
They were sent out for a walk together.
“Take her for a walk, dear Owen,” said the Canon solicitously. “Flora is pale, and cold. She has shut herself up too much of late. Go, my child, I shall do very well, and can find only too much to occupy me. Enjoy the fresh air.”
Flora made no protestations of inability to enjoy herself, nor any assumption of indispensability at home. It was the Canon, again, who suggested an errand to a distant cottage, and she acquiesced without comment.
It was a cold, grey day, with swiftly moving masses of cloud and a chill in the wind. Flora and Owen walked quickly, and at first neither spoke. Then Flora said:
“How much, exactly, were you a friend of David’s?”
His own surprise made Quentillian realize afresh how very seldom it was that Flora initiated any topic of a personal nature.
“We were not intimate,” he replied.