‘And that lady whom I saw you with at the theatre on the first night of “Cymbeline”—I thought she was Mrs. Forster.’
‘That was my sister.’
They walked on for a little in silence. Forster was the first to speak.
‘It is curious, after all, that you should class me among the married people, for the fact is, I am a widower. My poor wife died many years ago, and left me one child, a boy. My sister keeps my house; but when you talk of home, and home ties, I cannot help telling you that I am a very lonely man—quite an old bachelor, indeed, in my way. When, after a long day in the City, I return to my house, and get among my books and pictures, I am still lonely, but sometimes very happy after all.’
A girl less naïve and unsuspicious than Madeline might have been astonished at this fragment of autobiography, coming from such a man, and might have questioned her own fascinations as to the origin of such candour. But Madeline thought it quite natural, as between friend and friend.
‘But let us speak of other things,* continued Forster, after a pause, ‘of yourself. I sometimes think, if you will forgive me for saying so, that you must be rather lonely too.’
‘No,’ she replied readily; adding with her brightest smile, ‘not while I have Mr. White.’
‘Ah, he is a good fellow—but you have neither father nor mother.’
Madeline shook her head.
‘They died long ago. I do not remember them.’