"And how have you been getting on?" he asked. "I mean, of course—the house?"
She stood against the wall over which he leaned; she did not look up at him when she replied. "Oh, pretty well, thank you," she said in a low voice. "Nothing ever happens, you know, in Arcadia Street—except the thing you don't want to happen."
"Your father?"
"Father is quite established again at his club; they think a lot of him at his club," she said. "And Aubrey is positive he will hear of something to do very shortly."
"That's good news," said Gilbert. "By the way—that Mr. Quarle I met when I was here last—the night I came over into your garden—do you know him very well?"
"Oh, yes; he's been a great friend of mine for nearly two years. But for him I think we couldn't keep the house going; he is the only lodger I have ever had who pays money without being asked for it. He's simply wonderful. Not that he's well off; he's only retired from something, and I don't think the something was very much before he retired from it. But his payments—oh—they're beautifully regular!"
"He's a valuable man," said Gilbert, not without a curious little feeling of jealousy that anyone else should be good to the girl except himself. Then the thought of what he had meant to do—the remembrance of the girl, shabby and forlorn, who had walked past the theatre that night, and had been something like Bessie Meggison—urged him to say something else.
"Bessie—(you don't mind my calling you Bessie—do you?)—have you ever had a holiday? I mean, have you ever got away from this dull house for one long evening—and seen bright lights, and happy faces—and heard music? Have you ever done that?"
Still leaning against the wall, she shook her head slowly, without looking up. "There hasn't been time—or money," she said simply.
"If you found the time—and I found the money?" he suggested. "What then?"