He spoke with a gentle lightness.
“It might have been so, mightn’t it?”
She remembered her dreams in the walled-in garden almost guiltily.
“No,” she said steadily—and as she spoke she felt as if she were firmly putting those dreams behind her forever. “Motherhood changes a woman more than men can ever know.”
“I—I know it’s all right. Then you won’t hate me for taking you both back to Little Market Street in a few days?”
He saw the color deepen in her face. For an instant she went on working. Then she put the work down, sat back in the low chair, and looked up at him.
“No, of course we must go back. And I was very happy in Little Market Street.”
And then quickly, before he could say anything, she began to recall the pleasant details of their life in Westminster, dwelling upon every household joy, and everything that though “Londony” had been delightful. Having conquered, with an effort which had cost her more than even Dion knew, a terrible reluctance she gave herself to her own generous impulse with enthusiasm. Rosamund could not do things by halves. She might obstinately refrain from treading a path, but if once she had set her feet on it she hurried eagerly along it. Something to-night had made her decide on treading the path of unselfishness, of generosity. When Dion lit his pipe she had not known she was going to tread it. It seemed to her almost as if she had found herself upon the path without knowing how she had got there. Now without hesitation she went forward.
“It was delightful in Westminster,” she concluded, “and it will be delightful there again.”
“And all your friends here? And Mr. Thrush?”