“There’s nothing here to look at, really,” Mrs. Clarendon said. “If I could afford it I should have the place kept in good order; but I can’t.”
She did not appear to notice the look of surprise which Kingcote was for a moment unable to suppress. Leading the way back to the rotunda, she placed a loose cushion and seated herself. The warmth here was temperate, not more than the season required for comfort.
“So you don’t study?” she began, with friendly abruptness, when she had pointed to a place for her companion. “What, then, do you do? I am rude, you see, but—I wish to know.”
“I wish I could satisfactorily account for my days. I read a little, walk a good deal, see the Vissians now and then——”
“And cultivate ennui—-isn’t it so? A most unprofitable kind of gardening. I believe you are thoroughly miserable; in fact, you are not at much pains to hide it.”
“Scarcely as much as courtesy requires, you would say. I wish I could be more amusing, Mrs. Clarendon.”
“I don’t ask you to be amusing—only to show yourself a little amused at my impertinent curiosity. Why should you have so forgotten the habit of cheerfulness?”
“The habit?”
“Certainly. Is it not a habit, as long as we are in health?”
“In people happily endowed, I suppose. Temperament and circumstances may enable one to keep a bright view of life.”