“I dare say it will look more like when it is finished.”
“No, it won’t,” said Miss Lane, candidly; “that is the worst of it. I can’t draw, though I really do try very hard.”
“Then why do you give yourself all the trouble of trying?”
Harry felt that his share in the talk was not in the style he had intended, but her rather stiff simplicity of manner disconcerted him.
“It is an excuse for coming out of doors.”
“An excuse? I never want one. I only want excuses for not coming home. I hate houses—they are so beastly stuffy; don’t you think so?”
He felt he was getting further and further from the lover-like manner which was to overcome Miss Lane; but he could not help it. She considered a little before answering.
“I like houses too—some houses, I wonder you don’t like yours. I think it is one of the nicest I have ever been in.”
“Do you? Do you like it better than the Vicarage?”
“Oh, yes! The Vicarage is only a place to eat and drink and sleep in!” she said, scornfully. “As for the drawing-room, everything in it is an insult to one’s eyes.”