“Be more precise, if you don’t mind,” he said seriously.
She gave him a detailed account of the conversation, picturesquely satiric. Hugh listened sombrely, holding his stick with both hands behind his back, as they strolled slowly down among the fallen leaves.
“So he’ll never consent,” she concluded. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until—well—the ordinary way of nature. He’s an old man.”
“We mustn’t think of that, my child,” said Hugh, with some gentleness.
“I don’t see why not. It will solve all our difficulties.”
“What a mixture of flint and flesh you are, Minna,” he said, regarding her curiously.
“I never pretend to love where I don’t,” she replied. “And when people thwart me I begin to dislike.”
They walked on a little in silence, turned and retraced their steps. The dusk began to gather round them and the autumn mist to hang upon the thinning branches. Minna shivered a little and took his arm.
“Why don’t you say something kind to me, Hugh dear?” she said, plaintively.
He stooped and kissed her, and they went on their way less far apart than before. Presently she asked him where he was going to dine.