“There is much to be thankful for. By the way, does Mr. Watkins come and doze these days in your garden?”
Mr. Watkins, the literary recluse, of whom Lady Carston was afraid, had taken to sitting in Miss Carston’s garden. He found he could write better, read better, and dream better there than anywhere. The peace of it all he found wonderfully soothing. The clatter of the milk-pails at the farm distracted him: the lowing of the cows depressed him (it made him feel the bitterness of his loneliness): the squealings of the pigs were too suggestive: the cackling of hens reminded him of women he had known and would fain forget.
“He must enjoy these lovely days,” said Mrs. Sloane slyly.
Elsie said he had not been for some time. She supposed he was busy.
“And Mr. Pease, the curate? His rooms were so stuffy, he said; didn’t he? Does he come? I suppose so?”
No, Elsie was bound to admit that the curate had not been for some time. She supposed he, too, was busy.
And Mrs. Sloane went on her way smiling. “Diana! Diana!” she said to herself, “oh, to be young again! How you must enjoy it all!” She stopped. “Well, well, my dear! I never expected to see you rioting like this. Why are you so shy in some gardens? What’s this about not growing unless you are put in a draughty place?” And she lifted a trail of Tropæolum and put it on its right way.
Just outside Elsie’s gate Mrs. Sloane met Mr. Watkins. “You are coming in?”—and she held the gate open.
“Not to-day, I think,” said the weary Mr. Watkins, adding something about his soul’s solitude,—“not to-day!”
“You should not keep all your beautiful thoughts to yourself,” said Mrs. Sloane. It was perhaps an unfortunate remark, because Mr. Watkins hastened to inform her that for two and sixpence, postage paid, she could read his latest and best—whatever the critics might choose to say.