He hardly did know, so different was his own world, and he could scarcely credit that Lucilla, the erstwhile mistress of St. Gwenllian, could know.
“You’ve remembered, of course,” she said reflectively, “that I’m several years older than you are?”
“What can that matter?”
“Nothing at all, certainly, if you’ve faced the risk that it entails and are prepared to take it. But, of course, that isn’t the only risk, Owen.”
“I suppose not. Is this an acceptance, or a refusal, Lucilla?”
They both broke into laughter.
“Here we are,” said Lucilla, stopping at a little gate in a row of other little gates. “I’ll walk with you to the station afterwards.”
She paused, with her hand on the little gate, and looked at him.
“It’s only that we are—or we ought to be—past the stage of following a generous impulse and hoping for the best. I—I don’t want either of us to bite off more than we can chew.”
On the elegance of her simile, Miss Morchard opened the front door of “Balmoral” with a latchkey, allowing no time for a reply.