"Please do."
He went back to his chair.
She was, he said, a wonderful friend.
So, she said, was he.
They talked about his family and her family—a little about their mutual friends and a lot about friends of his that she had never seen.
They talked about furniture and gardens.
There were, he said, a lot of subjects on which he wanted her advice.
It was all very domestic, their two armchairs and the fire—the dying fire. He must, she supposed, be imagining that they were married, seeing her at the head of the table, in the family pew. She wondered if he would have let her re-set the family jewels. Perhaps his mind had reached the nursery. He was dreaming of children, his children, her children, their children.
Dear St. John. She looked at him tenderly. She longed to explain what an unsuitable wife she would have made him.
"What are you thinking about?" her voice was very gentle.