“Confess,” she said, “you like me better here than in London, don’t you?”
“You are more natural,” he answered. “You are more like what I would have you be.”
She sat down on a piece of grey rock. They were at the summit now. Below was the great house with its magnificent avenues and park, the tiny village, and the quaint church. Beyond, a spreading landscape of undulating meadows and well-tilled land. The same thought came to both of them.
“Behold,” she murmured, “my possessions.”
He nodded.
“You should be very proud of your home,” he said quietly. “It is very beautiful.”
She turned towards him. Her face was as cold and destitute of emotion as the stone on which she sat.
“Do you wonder,” she asked, “why I have never married?”
He shrugged his shoulders.