“Yes—yes,” in a low, dreamy voice. “There is so much to do, and one gets on so slowly.”
“Big problem on, I suppose, as usual, eh?”
“Yes; a difficult problem,” said Alleyne vacantly. “These things take time.”
“Ah, I suppose so,” replied Oldroyd. “How’s the garden getting on now?”
“Garden?—the garden! Oh, yes; I had forgotten. Very well, I think; but I have been too much occupied for the past few weeks—months—weeks to attend to it myself.”
“I suppose so. One has to work hard to do more than one’s fellows, eh?”
Alleyne looked at him blankly.
“Yes, one has to work hard,” he replied.
“I thought, perhaps, as you have been shut up so much lately, you would come and have a round with me,” continued Oldroyd. “It is a splendid day.”
Alleyne looked at him dreamily, as if he felt that something of the brightness of the outer day had accompanied his friend into the room, but he merely shook his head.