"He never spends the summer here," she answered. "We are generally together after July, so perhaps," she added, "you may have to endure more of my company than you think."
She looked at me with a faint, provoking smile. How dare she? I was master of myself now, and I answered her coldly.
"I shall be very sorry to leave here," I said. "I hope if my work lasts so long that I shall be able to go on with it at the 'Brand.'"
She made no answer to that, but in a moment or two she turned and looked at me thoughtfully.
"You are rather a surprising person," she remarked, "in many ways. And you certainly have strange tastes."
"Is it a strange taste to love this place?" I asked.
"Of course not. But, on the other hand, it is strange that you should be content to remain here indefinitely. Solitude is all very well at times, but at your age I think that the vigorous life of a great city should have many attractions for you. Life here, after all, must become something of an abstraction."
"It contents me," I declared shortly.
"Then I am not sure that you are in an altogether healthy frame of mind," she answered, coolly. "Have you no ambitions?"
"Such as I have," I muttered, "are hopeless. They were built on sand—and they have fallen."