"Of course you never think of me," said Flo at length, trailing her sunshade among the pebbles.
"That's just what I do, though."
"How kind of you!"
The sneer froze Henry like a sudden frost.
"Men are such unselfish things, to be sure," she went on; the ice thickening rapidly.
Henry had really thought a great deal about her, and not without some misgivings. He had seen himself a successful worker in Fleet Street, with a dainty house out Hampstead way—he did not know where that might be, but he thought it was the literary quarter—and Flo looking her best as mistress of that home, with many a notable personage for guest. But he had also moments when he wondered if he were not a fool to bother his head about her, and when she said, "How kind of you!" he was glad they were not married yet. For all that, if Flo insisted, he supposed it would have to be, though there had been no arrangement in so many binding words. He was inclined to let her have to insist, however; and if she did—why, life would be ever after the making the best of a bad job. Not a healthy condition of love, it will be perceived.
As they were nearing the Wintons' again, Henry thawed a little.
"Wouldn't you really like to live in London, Flo?" he said.
"Perhaps, and perhaps not. No doubt I would. But what I don't like—and I may as well be frank about it—is living here and you in London."
"Ah, but that need not be for long," Henry returned kindly.