There was a strong sense upon him that the summons would not be long delayed now.
Lucilla went downstairs and quietly opened the outer door into the garden. They walked up and down there, Owen watching the red spark waxing and waning from his own cigar. The night was extraordinarily still, the dark arch of the sky powdered with stars.
Neither spoke directly of that which occupied their minds most, but Quentillian said by and bye:
“Where shall you go, eventually?”
“Torquay, perhaps. There is an old aunt there—father’s sister. I shall have just enough not to be dependent upon her, even if I make my home with her.”
“Will that be congenial?”
Lucilla gave a little low, sad laugh.
“I don’t think there’s much alternative, is there? This house, of course, goes to the next incumbent. If Mr. Clover is appointed—and we very much hope that he will be—he would probably buy a good deal of the furniture (which is just as well, as it would certainly drop to pieces if we tried to move it). I couldn’t possibly afford to set up house for myself, in any case. And I must have something to do. Aunt Mary would find plenty for me to do.”
“I daresay,” said Quentillian without enthusiasm.
“Perhaps you are thinking of my taking up an occupation or a profession seriously, but you know, Owen, it isn’t really a practical proposition, though one feels as though it ought to be. Just think for a minute, and tell me what I’m fit for—except perhaps being someone’s housekeeper.”