“Good-morning,” she answered, speaking without a trace of foreign accent. Then, waving branch and hat, she passed on, replying to his smile timidly.
He mentioned her at lunch. “Ah!” said Hal; “a-a-ah!” as if he had found something especially delectable on his plate. “That’s Vincenza. And I’ll bet she’s the prettiest girl in California.”
Everyone at the table promptly agreed. Austin felt something like surprise over this singleness of opinion. Even Miss Scott and Dorothy came out with no protesting “buts.” And Mrs. Thorburn—where was the heated belittlement that might be expected of an adoring and excusably ambitious mother? Did she not realise that here was an eligible and very likeable young man, and, on the next ranch, an astonishing lovely girl?
But the talk was of something else now, and Vincenza was forgotten.
That evening, as he was sitting beside Mrs. Thorburn in the music-room, listening to Dorothy’s facile rendering of a Grieg number, the elder woman turned to him suddenly and rested a hand on his arm.
“I think you’ve been happier than usual these two days,” she said. “Don’t you keep too close to your work and your home, Mr. Knowles?”
“Work, yes,” answered Austin. “But I can scarcely say that I have a home. It—it is empty.”
“You choose to have it so.” She was frankly reproving. “And yet you’re comparatively young, have means in abundance, and are the kind of man that sensible young women like.”
Austin was silent a moment. Then he said, “I’ve turned forty, and I’ve never thought of filling my wife’s place. Perhaps it’s not gallant to say it, but I’m afraid the place couldn’t be filled.”
“You’re wrong,” began Mrs. Thorburn, decisively. “There are many young women who could make you happy, cheer you, look after you—oh, every man needs looking after. And then, a son or a daughter would give you new interests in life.”