“A man of the world. Ah, there’s the difficulty,” said Vansittart, slightly cynical. “That kind of man is apt to be miserable without the world.”
After this they talked of other things; lightly, joyously; of the country through which they were walking; its beasts, and birds, and flowers, and humble cottage folk; of the places he had seen and the books she had read, those fictions of the great masters which create a populace and a world for the dwellers in lonely homes, and provide companions for the livers of solitary lives. They were at no loss for subjects, though that well-spring of polite conversation, a common circle of smart acquaintance, was denied to them. Their talk was as vivacious as if they had had all London society to dissect.
It was teatime again by the time they arrived at the Homestead. The lamp was lighted in the family parlour; the round table was spread; the kettle was hissing on the hob; Sophy and Jenny were sitting on one side of the fire; and on the other side, in that armchair which Vansittart had occupied on a previous occasion, sat a man of about fifty, a man with clear-cut features, silver-grey hair and moustache, and a querulous expression of countenance.
“What in the name of all that’s reasonable made you stay so late, Eve?” he grumbled, as his daughters entered. “Both those children will be laid up with influenza, I dare say, in consequence of your folly.”
Only at this moment did he observe the masculine figure in the rear. He rose hastily to receive a visitor.
“Mr. Vansittart, father,” explained Eve.
The two men shook hands.
“Girls are so foolish,” said the Colonel, by way of apology for his lecture. “It was very kind of you to take care of my daughters on the dark road; but Eve ought not to have stayed so long.”
“We left very soon after luncheon, father; but the days are so short.”
“Not any shorter than they were last week. You have had time to become familiar with their shortness, and to make your calculations accordingly.”