She laughed again and yielded.
"You ought to know your own mind by now," she said, with something of her former briskness. "It's a rum world, Mr. Merefleet."
"It isn't the world," said Merefleet. "It's the people in it. Now, Miss Ward, I have a favour to ask. Promise me that you will never again imagine for a moment that I am not pleased—more, honoured—when you are good enough to stop by the way and speak to me. Of your charity you have stooped to pity my loneliness. And, believe me, I do most sincerely appreciate it."
"My!" she said. "That's the nicest thing you've said yet. Yes, I promise that. You're real kind, do you know? You make me feel miles better."
She drew her hand gently away. Merefleet was trying to discern her features in the darkness.
"Are you really lonely, I wonder?" he said. "Or is that a figure of speech?"
"It's solid fact," she said. "But, never mind me! Let's talk of something nicer."
"No, thanks!" Merefleet could be obstinate when he liked. "Unless you object, I prefer to talk about you."
She laughed a little, but said nothing.
"I want to know what makes you lonely," he said. "Don't tell me, of course, if there is any difficulty about it!"