"Yes," he said, "yes. I wanted a place there, and Mowbray Lodge happened to be to let for a few months. It was the first time I had been to Sweetbay since that summer.... Your old house looks just the same—the outside at least; I've not been in it."
"Really?" she said. "Yes—does it?"
"Yes.... And the lane looks just the same too, until you get to the field; and then—then there isn't one. But perhaps that had vanished before you left?"
"No, there was no change when I was down there last, but that's a long while ago! Horrid old place! I'm very glad there's nothing to take me there any more."
"Didn't you like it?" he asked, pained.
"Oh, it was so slow! I wonder how I put up with it as long as I did. Didn't you find it slow? I must have gaiety. People tell me I'm a regular gadabout, but—" She laughed—"one's only young once, Mr. Warrener; I believe in having a good time while I can. I say I shall have plenty of time to be on the shelf by-and-by."
She was very, very plain. It was while he was thinking how plain she was, how ruthless the years had been to her, that the sudden pity for himself engulfed him—the pathetic consciousness that she must be reflecting how hard the years had been on him.
"It can't be difficult for you to have a good time," he returned, labouredly light.
"Well, I don't think it is," she declared; she tossed her large head, and rolled colourless eyes at him archly. "People tell me I've quite woke Tooting up since I've been here, and I must say I've done my best. I must lead. I mean to say if I'd been a man I should have liked to be a great politician, or a great general, you know."
"You could be nothing more potent than Mrs. Barchester-Bailey."