"These grounds present no such pretty coup d'œil as yours," I said. "I am new at this sort of work, and for all I know my taste may be a little cockneyfied."
"Oh, but the garden is in beautiful order! Pray do not speak to me of my poor little slip of ground. That lawn is larger." We paced through the walks. I could hardly remove my eyes from her face. She had replaced her hat of yesterday by one resembling that worn by Peg Woffington in Reynolds's picture. Her dress was black silk, with a muslin body. A carved ivory cross hung on her bosom by a chain of white coral.
"Your presence here gives me great happiness," I exclaimed; "and it makes me proud to think that I should have been the first to cause you to break through your rule of solitude."
"I have lived here a long time now, and you are the only person I know," she answered.
"But you must have felt dull sometimes?"
"Often. How should I help feeling dull? I have no one to speak to."
"But this must be your own fault," I said gently. "You might easily have made acquaintances."
"Yes, but I would not risk it. I might not like them, and in a small place like this it is embarrassing to withdraw from society after one has mingled in it. Besides, people are apt to be impertinent when they have nothing to do. A widow is always an object of curiosity, especially to elderly spinsters—and there are many here. Now I will let any one discuss me to her heart's content—on one condition: that we remain strangers. Oh, what a glorious rose, Mr. Thorburn!"
I separated it from the tree and gave it to her.