“What are you reading now?” he asked, glancing at the volume that lay in her lap.
“It's a Browning. I carry it about a good deal. I think I like to have it with me, but I don't seem to read it much.”
“Are you waiting for a suitable optimistic moment?” Broomhurst inquired smiling.
“Yes, now you mention it, I think that must be why I am waiting,” she replied slowly.
“And it doesn't come—even in the Garden of Eden? Surely the serpent, pessimism, hasn't been insolent enough to draw you into conversation with him?” he said lightly.
“There has been no one to converse with at all—when John is away, I mean. I think I should have liked a little chat with the serpent immensely by way of a change,” she replied in the same tone.
“Ah, yes,” Broomhurst said with sudden seriousness, “it must be unbearably dull for you alone here, with Drayton away all day.”
Mrs. Drayton's hand shook a little as she fluttered a page of her open book.
“I should think it quite natural you would be irritated beyond endurance to hear that all's right with the world, for instance, when you were sighing for the long day to pass,” he continued.
“I don't mind the day so much—it's the evenings.” She abruptly checked the swift words and flushed painfully. “I mean—I've grown stupidly nervous, I think—even when John is here. Oh, you have no idea of the awful silence of this place at night,” she added, rising hurriedly from her low seat, and moving closer to the doorway. “It is so close, isn't it?” she said, almost apologetically. There was silence for quite a minute.