“I suppose it is restful,” Mrs Carruthers remarked to him once, “mooning about the Arnott’s garden all day. Of course it is more of a change for you than using this garden... You do sleep here.”
He looked at her oddly. They were standing on the stoep together. He was just about to visit next door to take Mrs Arnott a book he had promised her. He had explained all this to Mrs Carruthers rather elaborately, and had failed to meet her steady, disconcerting gaze with his usual candour. These daily explanations of his informal visits next door called for much ingenuity, and were growing increasingly embarrassing. He disliked having to account for his doings; at the same time courtesy to his hostess demanded something; he rather fancied that it demanded more than it received.
“I admit the justice of that box on the ears,” he said. He held the book towards her. “We dine there to-night, I know; but I promised her she should have this this afternoon. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sending it in with my compliments,” he suggested.
“Pamela would be disappointed,” she said.
“I believe she would,” he agreed.
“George,” she looked at him very gravely, and her tone was admonishing, “I don’t wish to annoy you,—but do you think you are acting wisely?”
“You couldn’t annoy me,” he answered. “And I haven’t considered the question in that light... What do you think?”
“I think you are growing too interested in Pamela,” she replied.
He was silent for a second or so, turning the book he held in his hand and gazing absently at its title. Abruptly he looked up.
“You haven’t overstated the truth,” he said quietly, a little defiantly, she fancied.