We both look for an instant at the silent flower-beds, at the sombre bulk of the house.
"If they do not come to-morrow—" begins Frank.
"But they will!" cry I, petulantly; "they must! I cannot do without them! I believe some people do not mind being alone—not even in the evenings, when the furniture cracks and the door-handles rattle. I dare say you do not; but I hate my own company; I have never been used to it. I have always been used to a great deal of noise—too much, I have sometimes thought, but I am sure that I never shall think so again!"
"Well, but if they do not—"
"You have said that three times," I cry, irritably. "You seem to take a pleasure in saying it. If they do not—well, what?"
"I will not say what I was going to say," he answers, shortly. "I shall only get my nose bitten off if I do."
"Very well, do not!" reply I, with equal suavity.
We walk in silence toward the house, the wet grass is making my long gown drenched and flabby. We have reached the garden-door whence I issued, and by which I shall return.
"You must go now, I suppose," say I, reluctantly. "You will be by yourself too, will not you? Tell me" (speaking with lowered confidential tone), "do your chairs and tables ever make odd noises?"
"Awful!" he answers, laughing. "I can hardly hear myself speak for them."