“But you cannot stay for ever. It is already autumn—it will soon be winter.”
“I cannot tell,” Constance answered indifferently enough. “I confess that I care very little whether we pass the winter here or in town, provided Grace is contented.”
“You ought to consider yourself to some extent. You look tired, and you must weary of all this sadness and dismal solitude. It stands to reason that you should need a change.”
“No change would make any difference to me,” said Constance, walking slowly along the path and swinging her parasol slowly from side to side.
“Do you mean that you are ill?” George asked.
“No indeed! I am never really ill. But it is a waste of breath to talk of such things. Come into the house. Grace will be so glad to see you; she has been anticipating your visit for a long time.”
“Presently,” said George. “The afternoons are still long and it is pleasant here in the garden.”
“Do you want to talk to me?” asked the young girl, with the slightest intonation of irony.
“I wish to tell you something—something that will surprise you.”
“I am not easily surprised. Is it about yourself?”