“But it is coming home for you to come here.”
“I mean really like coming home. To one’s—one’s family. I never had a family. I’m an orphan.”
“Oh, are you?” said Rose with the proper sympathy. “I hope you’ve not been one very long. No—I mean I hope you have been one very long. No—I don’t know what I mean, except that I’m sorry.”
He laughed again. “Oh I’m used to it. I haven’t anybody. No sisters or brothers.”
“Then you’re an only child,” she observed intelligently.
“Yes. And there’s something about you that’s exactly my idea of a—of a family.”
She was amused.
“So—cosy,” he said, looking at her and searching for a word.
“You wouldn’t think so if you saw my house in Hampstead,” she said, a vision of that austere and hard-seated dwelling presenting itself to her mind, with nothing soft in it except the shunned and neglected Du Barri sofa. No wonder, she thought, for a moment clear-brained, that Frederick avoided it. There was nothing cosy about his family.
“I don’t believe any place you lived in could be anything but exactly like you,” he said.