They passed, and Monica did not allow herself to look back.
“I think it’s a nice house,” she said presently.
“All my life I have wished to have a house of my own, but I didn’t dare to hope I ever should. Men in general don’t seem to care so long as they have lodgings that suit them—I mean unmarried men. But I always wanted to live alone—without strangers, that is to say. I told you that I am not very sociable. When I got my house, I was like a child with a toy; I couldn’t sleep for satisfaction. I used to walk all over it, day after day, before it was furnished. There was something that delighted me in the sound of my footsteps on the staircases and the bare floors. Here I shall live and die, I kept saying to myself. Not in solitude, I hoped. Perhaps I might meet some one—”
Monica interrupted him to ask a question about some object in the landscape. He answered her very briefly, and for a long time neither spoke. Then the girl, glancing at him with a smile of apology, said in a gentle tone—
“You were telling me how the house pleased you. Have you still the same pleasure in living there?”
“Yes. But lately I have been hoping—I daren’t say more. You will interrupt me again.”
“Which way are we going now, Mr. Widdowson?”
“To Streatham, then on to Carshalton. At five o’clock we will use our right as travellers, and get some innkeeper to make tea for us. Look, the sun is trying to break through; we shall have a fine evening yet. May I, without rudeness, say that you look better since you left that abominable place.”
“Oh, I feel better.”
After keeping his look fixed for a long time on the horse’s ears, Widdowson turned gravely to his companion.