“I have heard about the solitude there is in crowds, but I never could find it so. I am so dreadfully sociable—Southern and Creole French, you know—that I always find troops of friends and acquaintances in a crowd. But in that solitary old country house in the autumn—that, if you please, was to be alone.”
“You seem to have a passion for solitude,” said Thorndyke, rather crossly.
“Oh, no, only a taste for it at times. I never contemplated with pleasure a solitary life, and I have a horror of a lonely old age.”
What did she mean? Was she proposing to him? Thorndyke was a good deal staggered by this speech from the lady of his secret love.
The time sped fast with them, and both of them started when a neighbouring clock struck seven. Constance rose at once.
“I must go and dress for dinner—and you—you will remain?”
Such an idea had never entered Thorndyke’s brain before, but in half a quarter of a second he had accepted.
“Of course,” said Constance, airily, picking up her muff, and putting her bare hands in it, “it’s very improper for you and me to dine together without others, but we have reached that comfortable age when we can commit all sorts of improprieties in perfect safety. It is a fine thing to grow old.”
“That thought almost reconciles me to the loss of my hair,” replied Thorndyke. “You will have to excuse my afternoon clothes, of course, since you have asked me to stay.”
“Certainly. And out of consideration for your feelings, I shall make only a demi-toilette.”