"Now tell me," he said, when she had thrown the match away.
She gazed for a moment in the grate, at the kettle breathing contentedly on the gas stove.
"I'm lonely," she said, turning to his eyes.
He met her gaze as well as he could. He knew she was lonely. Conscience—conscience that no strength of will could override—had often pricked him on that point. But what was a conscience? He would not have believed himself guilty of the weakness at any other time. He gave no rein to it.
"But you'll get over that," he said. "You'll get over that."
"I don't think so."
"But why not? Perhaps you give way to it. Find yourself plenty to do. Keep yourself moving. You won't be lonely then."
"I know. But do what?"
"Well," the question faced him. He had to answer it. "Well, you're fond of reading, aren't you?"
"Reading!"