They were a strange trio.
And so from week’s end to week’s end Dorothy was ever by Ernest’s side, reading to him, writing for him, walking and riding with him, weaving herself into the substance of his life.
And at last there came one sunny August day, when they were sitting together in the shade of the chancel of Titheburgh Abbey. It was a favourite spot of theirs, for the gray old walls sheltered them from the glare of the sun and the breath of the winds. It was a spot, too, rich in memories of the dead past, and a pleasant place to sit.
Through the gaping window-places came the murmur of the ocean and the warmth of the harvest sunshine; and gazing out by the chancel doorway, Dorothy could see the long lights of the afternoon dance and sparkle on the emerald waves.
She had been reading to him, and the book lay idle on her knees as she gazed dreamily at those lights and shadows, a sweet picture of pensive womanhood. He, too, had relapsed into silence, and was evidently thinking deeply.
Presently she roused herself.
“Well, Ernest,” she said, “what are you thinking about? You are as dull as—as the dullest thing in the world, whatever that may be. What is the dullest thing in the world?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, awakening. “Yes, I think I do; an American novel.”
“Yes, that is a good definition. You are as dull as an American novel.”
“It is unkind of you to say so, Doll, my dear. I was thinking of something, Doll.”