“Rupert has no particular chair.” After a moment, “Rupert always chooses whatever seat he thinks no one else wants; that is Rupert’s theory of life—and his practice.”
The tribute seems wrung out of her; yet she makes it, and handsomely too.
He gives a little nod of acquiescence, inwardly shocked at his own want of generosity in being able to do no more, yet—inwardly also—writhing at her praise.
“And you have lived here always?”
“Yes, always; that is, ever since Uncle George picked me out of the gutter.” She gives a forced laugh, and goes on, “You know that when I was a destitute baby he saved me from the workhouse?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Your tone says that I have repeated it ad nauseam. Well, I have to do it, lest—though you would hardly think such a thing possible—I may forget it. I am very near doing it sometimes.”
“I do not believe it.”
There is a grit and manliness in his voice that almost contradicts the passion in his eyes—eyes in which, for all their passion, there is room too for a wondering consternation at the metamorphosis wrought in his sweet, calm nurse and comrade.
“Shall we go out of doors?” he asks, after a moment or two of burdensome silence. “We have had so few hours out of doors together.”