“You didn’t say anything about me?”
“No, my darling; you had desired me not to mention your name and that was sufficient.”
“And he paid you out of his own pocket?”
“Yes, my love, he was most anxious that I should not be inconvenienced; but our repast is ready. Come,” and she motioned him to the place opposite her, and with happy dignity went to the head of the table. “I hope you will do it justice.”
Mr. Wimple ate his dinner with much solemnity. He always accepted his food as if it was a responsibility that demanded his most serious attention. Presently he looked at her across the dinner-table, at the lace about her throat, at the little crinkly gold brooch, which Florence had seen first years before at Rottingdean, at the lines and wrinkles that marked the tender old face, at the thin white hands with the loose skin and the blue veins; but no expression came into his dull full eyes. When the meal was over he got up and stood by the fireplace.
“My dear one,” she said, “are you tired with the journey?”
“No.”
“Did you find your rooms quite comfortable and ready for you?” she asked, and went over to his side.
“Yes,” he answered with the little gulp peculiar to him. He seemed to be considering something of which he was uncertain whether to speak or be silent. But he kept his eyes fixed full upon her.
“Are they in the Gray’s Inn Road, dear Alfred?”