“Thank you,” he said, and tried not to say it curtly.
“They belong to White, the grocer. River Street isn’t East Elgin, but it is that way, and it would be a great deal pleasanter for—for her.”
“I must consider that, of course. You haven’t been in them? I should hope for a bright sitting-room, and a very private study.”
If Advena was aware of any unconscious implication, the pair of eyes she turned upon him showed no trace of satisfaction in it.
“No, I haven’t. But if I could be of any use I should be very glad to go over them with you, and—”
She stopped involuntarily, checked by the embarrassment in his face, though she had to wait for his words to explain it.
“I should be most grateful. But—but might it not be misunderstood?”
She bent her head over her work, and one of those instants passed between them which he had learned to dread. They were so completely the human pair as they sat together, withdrawn in comfort and shelter, absorbed in homely matters and in each other; it was easy to forget that they were only a picture, a sham, and that the reality lay further on, in the early spring. It must have been hard for him to hear without resentment that she was ready to help him to make a home for that reality. He was fast growing instructed in women, although by a post-graduate course.
Advena looked up. “Possibly,” she said, calmly, and their agitation lay still between them. He was silently angry; the thing that stirred without their leave had been sweet.
“No,” said Advena, “I can’t go, I suppose. I’m sorry. I should have liked so much to be of use.” She looked up at him appealingly, and sudden tears came and stood in her eyes, and would perhaps have undone his hurt but that he was staring into the fire.