“Rather, a reasonable effort of the will, I should say. I am often tempted to be dreary, but I refuse to give way.”
Kingcote smiled, almost laughed.
“You think I have nothing to be dreary about?” she asked, gazing at him as if trying to read his thoughts. “That is a mistake; I don’t speak idly. It would be excusable enough if I lost my cheerfulness. But with me it is a habit. Under any circumstances there’s a great deal of entertainment to be got out of life. Of course, if one puts oneself under the most unfavourable conditions—goes to live in a remote hermitage, shuts oneself from social comforts, reads doleful books about funeral urns——”
She caught his eye, and broke off with bright laughter.
“You don’t care for Sir Thomas Browne?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t be honest if I said I did. I am afraid that kind of reading is beyond me. Ada—Miss Warren—enjoys it; but she is intellectual, and I cannot pretend to be.”
“What do you read, Mrs. Clarendon?”
“The newspapers, and now and then a novel—voilà tout!”
“There are better things than books,” observed Kingcote.
A footstep was heard in the inner house.