“Not for the only reason that it ought to be, dear Lucilla,” he answered humbly. “But because of the awful loneliness at Stear, and my own weakness which makes me afraid of it. And a little because of your sadness here, perhaps, but most of all because you are the only person I know who can face facts, and then be happy. It’s the most wonderful combination in life.”
“You have faced facts, yourself.”
“And it has only brought me bitterness.”
She reflected for a moment and then said:
“That’s true. But you won’t find your remedy in marriage with me, Owen.”
Her voice held all its old crisp, common-sense.
“Are you staying to tea, because if so, my aunt will want some warning. She is old, and fussy, and there’s only one maid.”
They had met out of doors.
“Pray don’t let me cause any inconvenience,” he said stiffly, offended by the irrelevance.
“It won’t be in the least inconvenient,” Lucilla assured him kindly. “Aunt Mary likes to see people, very much, it’s a new interest for her. Only it worries her if the drawing-room fire isn’t lit, or there’s no cake for tea. Things like that, you know.”