"That's my house yonder—or was," said the man with a slight motion of his head. And, after a moment: "You didn't recognise me. Have I changed much?"
Quarren said: "You seem to have been—ill."
"Yes; I have been. I'm ill, all right.... Will you have a seat for a few minutes—unless you are going somewhere in particular—or don't care to talk to me——"
"Thank you." Quarren seated himself. It was his instinct to be gentle—even with such a man.
"I haven't seen much of you, for a couple of years—I haven't seen much of anybody," said Ledwith, turning the pages of his book without looking at them. Then, furtively, his sunken eyes rested a moment on Quarren:
"You are stopping with——"
"The Wycherlys."
"Oh, yes.... I haven't seen them lately.... They are neighbours"—he waved his sickly coloured hand—"but I'm rather quiet—I read a good deal—as you see."—He moistened his bluish lips every few moments, and his nose seemed to annoy him, too, for he rubbed it continually.
"It's a pretty country," said Quarren.
"Yes—I thought so once. I built that house.... There's no use in my keeping up social duties," he said with another slinking glance at Quarren. "So I'm giving up the house."