CHAPTER XXIX.
MRS. WILLIAMS’S LODGER.
Phillis felt rather shy and uncomfortable as she picked her way warily among the rain-pools in the semi-darkness. Her companion was inclined to be silent; most likely he considered her churlish in repelling his civil offers of help: so, to make amends, and set herself at her ease, she began to talk to him with an attempt at her old sprightliness.
“Do you know this neighborhood well, Mr. Dancy? Have you been long at Ivy Cottage?”
“Only a few days; but I know the place well enough,” he responded, quietly. “It depends upon circumstances how long I remain here.”
“Hadleigh is very quiet,” returned Phillis, quickly. “It does not offer many attractions to strangers, unless they have very moderate views of enjoyment. It is select, and the bathing is good, and the country tolerable; but when you have said that, you have said all in its favor.”
“I have always liked the place,” with a checked sigh. “Quiet,—that is what I want, and rest also. I have been rather a wanderer over the face of the earth, and one wants a little breathing-time occasionally, to recruit one’s exhausted energies. I like Ivy Cottage, and I like Mrs. Williams: both suit me for the present. Are you a visitor to Hadleigh,—a mere bird of passage like myself, Miss Challoner?”
“Oh, dear, no: we have come here to live.”
“And—and you are intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?” coming a little closer to her side in the darkness.
“Nothing of the kind,” retorted Phillis: “we are mere acquaintances. I do not feel to know her at all; she is not a person with whom one could get intimate all at once; she is a little difficult. Besides in our position––” And here she pulled herself up suddenly.