“People in the country are so stupid, and they take so much for granted,” I remarked. “If I were a philanthropist, I should certainly choose to work in a city.”
“You are quite right,” she answered, absently. “Work amongst people who have learned to think a little for themselves is more inspiring.”
We were silent for a moment or two. She was evidently not interested in the discussion, so I did not attempt to carry it on. I turned a little in my chair to watch the storm outside, conscious all the time that her eyes scarcely left my face.
“I had grown so used,” she said, presently, “to the rectory being empty, that I had quite forgotten the possibility of its being occupied again. The vicar used to live several miles away. I wonder that Mr. Deville did not know anything about you—that he did not know your name, at any rate.”
Now I was sorry that she had mentioned Mr. Deville. I was doing my best to forget all that I had heard from Lady Naselton, and to form an independent judgment; but at her words the whole substance of it returned to me with a rush. I leaned back in my chair, and looked at her thoughtfully. She was a woman whose age might be anything between thirty-five and forty. She was plainly dressed, but with a quiet elegance which forbade any idea of a country dressmaker. She was too thin for her figure to be considered in any way good; but she was tall and graceful in all her movements. Her thick, brown hair, touched here and there with grey, was parted in the middle and vigorously brushed away from a low, thoughtful forehead, over which it showed a decided propensity to wave. Her features were good and strongly marked, and her skin was perfect. Her eyes were bright and dark, her mouth piquant and humorous. She had no pretence to beauty, but she was certainly a very attractive and a very well-bred woman. I had never in all my life seen any one who suggested less those things at which Lady Naselton had hinted.
Perhaps she saw the slight change in my face at Mr. Deville’s name. At any rate, she turned the conversation.
“Have you been living in the country before you came here, or near a large city?” she asked. “You will find it very quiet here!”
“We came from Belchester,” I answered. “My father had a church in the suburbs there. It was very horrid; I was not there long, but I hated it. I think the most desolate country region in the world is better than suburbanism.”
“I don’t think that I agree with you,” she smiled. “In a large community at any rate you are closer to the problems of life. I was at Belchester not long ago, and I found it very interesting.”
“You were at Belchester!” I repeated in surprise.