October passed and some part of November, and nothing had been done, except that I had grown more and more friendly with Ughtred Gascoyne. He was very musical, and liked to hear me sing and play.
Sometimes I made a point of meeting him late at night on his way home from the club, and went in and smoked a cigar with him. I could not help reflecting how very much those whom it was my unfortunate duty to remove seemed to like me. Perhaps it was a premonition that I was about to do them a good turn or what might prove to be so.
His servant was usually in bed when I returned to his rooms with him at night.
Both Catherine Goodsall and he were always talking of the time they would have me to stay with them at the little place they were taking in the country.
“Quite small,” said Ughtred Gascoyne, “but altogether delightful, isn’t it, Catherine?”
“You know, dear, I’m in love with it. I am looking forward to having a little vault in that dear old church with a stained glass window, to the memory of Ughtred and Catherine Gascoyne of this parish.”
“I can’t say that that is a very cheerful way of looking forward.”
“Well, it’s only when that happens that a woman can be said to have her husband to herself.”
We laughed. It was really quite delightful to see how happy they meant to be, and after all if “man never is but always to be blest,” and the pleasure of all things is a question of the imagination and lies almost entirely in anticipation, they had had as much pleasure out of it as could be expected.
I knew the time Ughtred Gascoyne usually went home, and my meetings with him, looked upon by him as accidental, were by no means so.