Mr. Vincent looked at her awkwardly. She meant him to soothe her, to say something regretful, perhaps to kiss her if he still knew how—she doubted it. But he made no sign, he sat quite still, while she thought him a fool for his pains. After a moment's silence he put out his hand and touched her arm.
"It's a good thing you didn't take the house, then," he said, and that was all.
She brushed her tears away, and wondered for a moment what to do with this wooden man, who seemed incapable of response to any interesting mood of hers.
"Tell me what she is like," she half whispered.
He considered for a moment. "I don't think I am good at describing people," he answered, in quite an ordinary tone.
"I imagine her"—she began and stopped, as though she were trying to keep back just the ghost of a mocking tone that would come into her voice—"a dear, good, useful creature, a clever, managing woman, who looks after everything and makes you thoroughly comfortable."
"I believe I am pretty comfortable," he answered, thoughtfully.
"Oh! And do you help with the farm?" she asked, with a possibility of contempt—it depended on his answer.
"No, I fear I don't do that. I leave it to her and to Hannah. Hannah is her daughter by her first husband."
"I dare say he was very different from you," and her lip curled.