“I heard they were very happy,” said Wareham.
His voice was under control. Anne, walking a little in advance, did not know that his eyes, fastened on her, gathered torturing bliss from watching her swift graceful movements. She pictured him for a moment thinking of Millie, then conviction rushed over her again and checked her steps.
As they reached the lake rain once more fell heavily, honeycombing the glassy water with an infinite number of tiny depressions. The lake was bordered with slopes of grass, and with magnificent clumps of rhododendrons and kalmias. Sweeping down in noble curves, they formed an island, and sent deep purple and green shadows into the water. On the left, and close to the water, stood a long low house.
“Let us wait there until the storm has passed. It is only a storm,” urged Wareham.
Anne hesitated. But they were as secure from interruption there as anywhere else, and her umbrella hampered her. They went, and were made instantly welcome. The house was kept always in order in case visitors came from the big house, and a pleasant room received them—pleasant now, it had to be owned, rather by right of a blazing fire and comfortable chairs than from the situation which gave its charm in finer weather. Wareham, accustomed to take note of all around him, observed so much; Anne, absorbed, thought only that fate had brought them to the best possible place for her purpose. He pulled a chair near the fire.
“Sit here, and get dry. That last downpour was wetting.”
She motioned to another opposite. “You there, then.”
“Thanks.” He walked restlessly to the window. “I do not think it will last.”
“What does it matter? As well here as anywhere else. But man is a discontented being, always desirous of being where he is not.”
The reproach brought him back smiling to the chair she indicated. But something in his attitude laid him open to her next remark.