“Oh,” he said, “there are lots of things I want.”
“What?” demanded Honora, interested. For she had never conceived of him as having any desires whatever.
“I want a house like Mr. Dwyer's,” he declared, pointing at the distant imposing roof line against the fading eastern sky.
Honora laughed. The idea of Peter wishing such a house was indeed ridiculous. Then she became grave again.
“There are times when you seem to forget that I have at last grown up, Peter. You never will talk over serious things with me.”
“What are serious things?” asked Peter.
“Well,” said Honora vaguely, “ambitions, and what one is going to make of themselves in life. And then you make fun of me by saying you want Mr. Dwyer's house.” She laughed again. “I can't imagine you in that house!”
“Why not?” he asked, stopping beside the pond and thrusting his hands in his pockets. He looked very solemn, but she knew he was smiling inwardly.
“Why—because I can't,” she said, and hesitated. The question had forced her to think about Peter. “I can't imagine you living all alone in all that luxury. It isn't like you.”
“Why I all alone?” asked Peter.