"Hubert Farquhar Rawson-Clew," he said solemnly. "Now—"
But whatever was to have followed was prevented, for at that moment she looked up, and for some reason, suddenly decided things had gone far enough, and so freed herself.
"I don't think it matters much what I should have done," she said, "or why, either. Father is not dead; you ought to know better than to talk about such a thing; it is bad taste."
"Does that matter in the simple life? I thought when you retired you were going to dispense with falsity and pretences, and say and do honestly what you honestly thought, when it did not hurt other people's feelings."
"So I do," she answered; "that is why, when I thought I was alone just now, I asked out loud how it was that father was still alive. Since then I have seen."
"What have you seen?"
"That it is to prevent me from making a great muddle of things. If he had been dead I dare say I should have married you—I may as well confess it since you know—and we both should have repented it ever afterwards. As it is, if I were free to-morrow, I would know better than to do it."
He did not seem much troubled by the last statement. "We should have had to talk things over," he said.
"No, talking wouldn't have been any good," she answered; "there is a great distance between us."
He looked down at the space of red tiles that separated them. "That is rather remediable," he observed.