"That wasn't quite true," replied the girl; "it was only a matter of pride. Patience thought people might believe that she was poor; she exaggerated a little."
"And the house?—the house that was larger than you wanted?" he asked, with a whimsical look in his eyes.
She shook her head. "It isn't our house at all; we've only got a few furnished rooms at the top of it," she replied.
"And I was thinking of coming to live with you!" he cried, with a laugh.
"Oh, Charlie!" She seized his arm, and looked round eagerly into his face. "If you only would!"
"Why—would it mean so much to you?" he asked, in a tone half of pity, half of tenderness. "I don't suppose they'd find room for me."
"It might be managed; oh, I'm sure it might be managed!" she whispered. "And you could work there—and I—we could see you often—every day."
He had no understanding of her real meaning; no knowledge of the desperate loneliness that spoke innocently in her voice and in her eyes; shallow himself, he was only vaguely flattered at her desire to see him, at her happiness in meeting him again. After all, this was something of a new sensation; this snatching up of someone out of the darkness in which she had lain hidden; this showing to her all the wonders of a world of which he had grown a little tired. He promised himself some entertainment out of it; felt that under all the circumstances he was doing rather a good and a kindly thing.
"Well, even if I don't find a room there, we must manage to see a lot of each other, Moira," he said. "You must be heartily sick of spending all your time with old Patience; I should think you must yawn your heads off every night. Or do you go out at all, as she seemed to suggest?"
"We do not go out; I've only been out once—to enjoy myself, I mean—and that was to the opera. That was wonderful!"