In another mile they passed a residence that to her mind formed a pleasant contrast with the oppressive splendour of the nobleman's domain. Here there were white gates between mellow brick walls, easy peeps into a terraced garden, stables and barns as at a farm, pigeons settling on some thatch, friendly English trees guarding but not hiding a dear old English country house.
"Look, Enid," and Mrs. Thompson pointed to the broad eaves, the white windows, and the solid chimney stacks, as they showed here and there between the branches of oak and maple. "There. That's a place I fell in love with the first time I saw it.... I would like a house just like that—for you and me to live in when I am able to give up my work...."
"What were you saying, mother?" Enid, not listening or absorbed by her own thoughts, had not heard.
"I was only saying, that's the sort of house I should like for us two—when I retire."
"Mother, I sometimes wish that you had retired years ago."
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thompson meekly, "retiring is all very well—but you and I wouldn't be sitting here driving so comfortably if I had been afraid of my work and in a hurry to get done with it."
II
In her marriage she had sacrificed all the natural hopes and inclinations of a healthy young woman. She and her widowed mother were very poor, quite alone in the world; and it seemed a proper and a wise thing to marry Mr. Thompson for his money. No one could guess that the money was already a phantom and no longer a fact. The man was middle-aged, feeble of body and mind, a stupid and a selfish person; but it seemed that he would assure the future of his wife and provide a comfortable home for his mother-in-law.