“And, you see, I like a long walk,” said Mrs. Bowman, “and you are not what I should call a good walker.”
“You never used to complain,” said Mr. Clark; “in fact, it was generally you that used to suggest turning back.”
“She wants to be amused as well,” remarked Mr. Tucker; “then she doesn't feel the fatigue.”
Mr. Clark glared at him, and then, shortly declining Mrs. Bowman's invitation to accompany them home, on the ground that he required exercise, proceeded on his way. He carried himself so stiffly, and his manner was so fierce, that a well-meaning neighbor who had crossed the road to join him, and offer a little sympathy if occasion offered, talked of the weather for five minutes and inconsequently faded away at a corner.
Trimington as a whole watched the affair with amusement, although Mr. Clark's friends adopted an inflection of voice in speaking to him which reminded him strongly of funerals. Mr. Tucker's week was up, but the landlord of the George was responsible for the statement that he had postponed his departure indefinitely.
Matters being in this state, Mr. Clark went round to the widow's one evening with the air of a man who has made up his mind to decisive action. He entered the room with a bounce and, hardly deigning to notice the greeting of Mr. Tucker, planted himself in a chair and surveyed him grimly. “I thought I should find you here,” he remarked.
“Well, I always am here, ain't I?” retorted Mr. Tucker, removing his cigar and regarding him with mild surprise.
“Mr. Tucker is my friend,” interposed Mrs. Bowman. “I am the only friend he has got in Trimington. It's natural he should be here.”
Mr. Clark quailed at her glance.
“People are beginning to talk,” he muttered, feebly.