'I have no wish to go back to America,' Egremont was saying, 'but, if I do, I shall very likely settle there for good. I don't think I am ideally adapted to a pursuit of that kind, but habit makes it quite tolerable.'
'What should you do if you remained in England?' Annabel asked, her voice implying no more than friendly interest.
'I might say that I don't know, but it wouldn't be true. I know well enough I should live the life of a student, and of a man who looks on contemporary things with an artistic interest, though he lacks the artistic power to use his observations. In time I should marry. I should have pleasure in my house, should make it as beautiful as might be, should gather a very few friends about me. I should not become morbid; the danger of that is over. Every opportunity I saw of helping those less fortunate than myself I should gladly seize; it is not impossible that I might seek opportunities, that I might found some institution—of quite commonplace aims, be assured. For instance, I should like to see other Homes like Mrs. Ormonde's; many women could conduct them, if the means were supplied. And so on.'
'Yes, that is all very reasonable. It lies with yourself to decide whether you might not have a breezier existence in America.'
'True. But not with myself to decide whether I remain here or go back again. I ask you to help me in determining that.'
Annabel stood as one who reflects gravely yet collectedly. Egremont fixed his eyes upon her, until she looked at him then his gaze questioned silently.
'Let us understand each other,' said Annabel. 'Do you say this because of anything that has been in the past?'
'Not because of it; in continuance of it.'
'Yet we are both very different from what we were when that happened.'
'Both, I think. I do not speak now as I did then, yet the wish I have is far more real.'