“How did you know that?” demanded Lydia.
“From hearing you to-day. May I tell you how much I liked your singing?”
“My aunt thought I ought to cultivate my voice. But I would never go upon the stage. I would rather sing in a church. I should like that better than teaching.”
“I think you're quite right,” said Staniford, gravely. “It's certainly much better to sing in a church than to sing in a theatre. Though I believe the theatre pays best.”
“Oh, I don't care for that. All I should want would be to make a living.”
The reference to her poverty touched him. It was a confidence, coming from one so reticent, that was of value. He waited a moment and said, “It's surprising how well we keep our footing here, isn't it? There's hardly any swell, but the ship pitches. I think we walk better together than alone.”
“Yes,” answered Lydia, “I think we do.”
“You mustn't let me tire you. I'm indefatigable.”
“Oh, I'm not tired. I like it,—walking.”
“Do you walk much at home?”