He smiled, having no idea where Little Langbourne might be.
They talked—of nothing, of the ducks and geese on the green, of the weather, of the sunshine, of the ancient stocks.
“You are staying here?” she asked.
“Yes, at Mrs. Bonner’s.”
“Oh, then you are an artist?”
“Nothing so ornamental, I am afraid. No—quite a useless person.”
“If you are not an artist, and have no friends here, do you not find it a little dull?”
“Yes, but I am a patient animal. I am waiting, you see.”
“Waiting—for what?”
Hugh smiled. “For something that may happen, and yet may not. I am waiting in case it does. Of course you don’t understand, little girl, I—I mean—I am sorry,” he apologised. “I was forgetting, thinking of a friend, another girl I know.”