“What is that?” I asked.
“It is a woman who confuses one’s thought when one looks at her. I do not now seem to have anything to say—or too much.”
“You called me a child.”
“I should have called you an enigma.”
I assured him I was not the least complex, and that I only wanted everything simple, and to be left in peace, without having to get married, or worry to obey people.
We had a nice talk.
“You won’t leave here on Saturday,” he said, presently, apropos of nothing. “I do not think I shall go myself, to-morrow. I want you to show me all over the gardens, and your favourite haunts.”
“To-morrow I shall be busy packing,” I said, gravely, “and I do not think I want to show you the gardens—there are some corners I rather loved—I believe it will hurt a little to say good-bye.”
Just then Mr. Barton came into the room, fussy and ill at ease. Mr. Carruthers’ face hardened again, and I rose to say good-night.