She told him what her occupations had been; they were limited, it was true, but they had helped to open her eyes on a few of life’s problems.
“Have you been shut up in your room ever since the storm?”
“Nearly, with the exception of the day of the first exodus, when I felt I must either have some air, or die. I have been out once or twice since, at unearthly hours of the morning; but this is the first party I have been at—I could not risk meeting you. I had pictured our meeting very differently from what it has been; I dreaded it, and little imagined this would be the end of it.”
“No, sweetheart,” interrupted her lover, “you mean, the beginning of our life. Tell me all you did at home.”
“I have studied more, my dear Lionel, in these last weeks than in all my life before, including my school days. My books have been the sun rising and setting, the stars and the birds’ twitterings; I have thought of poetry, philosophy, and history—”
“Poor Gwen, how dull it must have been! Fancy you studying the works of nature, and imagining that you are a philosopher!”
“You are cruel, Lionel.”
“Forgive me, Gwen. I am more than cruel, I am unjust, for I am the last who ought to scoff or reprove. I stand here as a repentant sinner, only begging to kiss your hand and to be allowed to gaze on your beauty.”
“Lionel, believe me, I thought a great deal.”
“Could you not telephone to your friends?”