“I thought you would. I’m very glad.”
“There’s no reason for it,” repeated Rosamund thoughtfully. “I’m horrid enough to Cousin Bertie very often, as you know.”
He had seen her lose her temper in a quick, childish outburst over a small matter that afternoon.
“And I always thought I must have definite work or go mad. You know I tried writing, and everything, and none of it seemed right. Yet here I am, doing nothing at all, except little tiny jobs that Cousin Bertie mostly makes for me, and sometimes wondering if I’m justifying my existence at all—yet the days go by very quickly.”
“Work will come,” said Ludovic, voicing a conviction. “The jobs one takes up just to save one’s fancied self-respect never seem to me to be worth while.”
Rosamund laughed a little.
“I never can remember that you’re in Parliament—but I always think of you in connection with your writing,” she remarked frankly.
“Exactly,” returned Ludovic dryly.
They both laughed, with the sense of companionship that a shared laugh almost inevitably carries with it.
“Aha!” said Mrs. Tregaskis, at work in the garden with Miss Blandflower, as the sounds came through the open window. “What do you think of me as a scheming old woman, Minnie? I can always enjoy a little match-making, even in my dotage.”