For some time after his departure she preserved a silence which Mr. Tucker endeavored in vain to break. He took a chair by her side, and at the third attempt managed to gain possession of her hand.
“I deserved all he said,” she cried, at last. “Poor fellow, I hope he will do nothing desperate.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Tucker, soothingly.
“His eyes were quite wild,” continued the widow. “If anything happens to him I shall never forgive myself. I have spoilt his life.”
Mr. Tucker pressed her hand and spoke of the well-known refining influence a hopeless passion for a good woman had on a man. He cited his own case as an example.
“Disappointment spoilt my life so far as worldly success goes,” he said, softly, “but no doubt the discipline was good for me.”
Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly, and began to be a little comforted. Conversation shifted from the future of Mr. Clark to the past of Mr. Tucker; the widow's curiosity as to the extent of the latter's worldly success remaining unanswered by reason of Mr. Tucker's sudden remembrance of a bear-fight.
Their future was discussed after supper, and the advisability of leaving Trimington considered at some length. The towns and villages of England were at their disposal; Mr. Tucker's business, it appeared, being independent of place. He drew a picture of life in a bungalow with modern improvements at some seaside town, and, the cloth having been removed, took out his pocket-book and, extracting an old envelope, drew plans on the back.
It was a delightful pastime and made Mrs. Bowman feel that she was twenty and beginning life again. She toyed with the pocket-book and complimented Mr. Tucker on his skill as a draughtsman. A letter or two fell out and she replaced them. Then a small newspaper cutting, which had fluttered out with them, met her eye.
“A little veranda with roses climbing up it,” murmured Mr. Tucker, still drawing, “and a couple of—”