Connie dropped the subject. These conferences in the study, which had gone on all day, had nothing to do with Nora’s work for the Press—that she was certain of. But she only said—holding out her hands, with the free gesture that was natural to her—
‘I wish someone would give me the chance of “overdoing it”! Do set me to work—hard work! The sun never shines here.’
Her eyes wandered petulantly to the rainy sky outside, and the high-walled college opposite.
‘Southerner! Wait till you see it shining on the Virginian creeper in our garden quad. Oxford is a dream in October!—just for a week or two, till the leaves fall. November is dreary, I admit. All the same—try and be happy!’
He looked at her gravely and tenderly. She coloured a little as she withdrew her hands.
‘Happy? That doesn’t matter—does it? But perhaps for a change—one might try⸺’
‘Try what?’
‘Well!’—she laughed, but he thought there were tears in her eyes—‘to do something—for somebody—occasionally.’
‘Ask Mrs. Mulholland! She has a genius for that kind of thing. Teach some of her orphans!’