He did not suppose himself to be tempestuously in love, but he had made up his mind that he greatly wished to marry Valeria.
A wistful uncertainty possessed him as to whether Valeria would wish to marry him.
Stear looked forlorn and uninhabited, and the repairs were even less advanced than Quentillian had expected them to be.
He reflected that he ought to be upon the spot, and shuddered involuntarily, and to his disgust, at the lonely prospect.
Since his shell-shock, he had very often been afraid of his own company, and the knowledge was peculiarly galling to him.
“Your lines have fallen to you in pleasant places, Owen,” said the Canon genially.
“You are optimistic, sir,” said Quentillian rather dryly. “It will be months before these men are out of the place.”
“You should move in yourself,” Lucilla suggested.
“I believe I should.”
“Thoughtless Lucilla! Why should Owen leave his present quarters, if he is happy with us, as I trust he is? Aye, dear Owen, you are very welcome at St. Gwenllian whilst your own nest is being prepared for you.”