“Very little. What she will say to you, I have no doubt. That she hopes I shall be happy and is very glad to hear of the marriage.”
“I wonder whether she cares,” said Grace thoughtfully. George thought it would be more discreet to say nothing than to give his own opinion in the matter.
“No one can tell,” Grace continued. “Least of all, herself. I have once or twice thought that she regretted you and wished you would propose again. And then, at other times, I have felt sure that she was only bored—bored to death with me, with her surroundings, with Dr. Drinkwater, the poor and her soul. Poor child, I hope she will marry soon!”
“I hope so,” said George as he rose to leave. “Will you be kind enough not to say anything about the engagement until it is announced? That will be in a fortnight or so.”
“Certainly. Come and see me when it is out, unless you will come sooner. It is so good of you. Good-bye.”
He left the house and walked down the garden in the direction of the trees, thinking very much more of Grace and of her conversation than of Constance. Apart from her appearance, which had a novel interest for him, and which excited his sympathy, he hardly knew whether he had been attracted or repelled by her uncommon frankness of speech. There was something in it which he did not recognise as having belonged to her before in the same degree, something more like masculine bluntness than feminine honesty. It seemed as though she had caught and kept something of her dead husband’s manner. He wondered whether she spoke as she did in order to remind herself of him by using words that had been familiar in his mouth. He was engaged in these reflections when he was surprised to meet Constance face to face as he turned a corner in the path.
“I thought you were indoors,” he said, glancing at her face as though expecting to see some signs of recent distress there.
But if Constance had shed tears she had successfully effaced all traces of them, and her features were calm and composed. The truth of the matter was that she feared lest she had betrayed too much feeling in the interview in the garden, and now, to do away with any mistaken impression in George’s mind, she had resolved to show herself to him again.
“Are you in your boat?” she asked. “I thought that as it was rather chilly, and if you did not mind, I would ask you to row me out for ten minutes in the sun. Do you mind very much?”
“I shall be delighted,” said George, wondering what new development of circumstances had announced itself in her sudden desire for boating.