“The old bear is sometimes an old goose as well, and torments himself in the silliest way. Tell him so, if ever he begins to behave badly. Isn’t it account-book morning?”
“Yes. I’ll come to you at eleven.”
“And if we have a nice, quiet, comfortable week, I’ll take you to the Crystal Palace concert next Saturday.”
Monica nodded cheerfully, and went off to look after her housekeeping.
The week was in all respects what Widdowson desired. Not a soul came to the house; Monica went to see no one. Save on two days, it rained, sleeted, drizzled, fogged; on those two afternoons they had an hour’s walk. Saturday brought no improvement of the atmosphere, but Widdowson was in his happiest mood; he cheerfully kept his promise about the concert. As they sat together at night, his contentment overflowed in tenderness like that of the first days of marriage.
“Now, why can’t we always live like this? What have we to do with other people? Let us be everything to each other, and forget that any one else exists.”
“I can’t help thinking that’s a mistake,” Monica ventured to reply. “For one thing, if we saw more people, we should have so much more to talk about when we are alone.”
“It’s better to talk about ourselves. I shouldn’t care if I never again saw any living creature but you. You see, the old bear loves his little girl better than she loves him.”
Monica was silent.
“Isn’t it true? You don’t feel that my company would be enough for you?”