"Oh, yes, he was interested--as much interested as he could be in anything outside! But not surprised! He and I were constantly puzzled by your extraordinary youth! The get-up was excellent, but your manner, your movements--they did not belong to an elderly woman. Circumstances favoured you, of course! You were naturally quiet and reserved on our first meeting, and then Billy's illness cast a gloom over us all. Every one seems older in a period of anxiety; but as soon as the cloud lifted your vitality asserted itself." He looked at me anxiously. "This--this reunion will make a difference to your life? It will take away your friend." "Yes, it will. My friends all go," I said a little bitterly. "I am trying not to think of myself, but only to rejoice for her; but it is hard!" "That house in the country! You shared it together? Couldn't you make it your home instead of the flat? It would be more--suitable. This fairy godmother scheme is possible for a few months, with a home in the background, to which you can return at any moment, but now that you will be alone, you are too young. It does not seem right. Couldn't you"--he looked at me apologetically--"carry on the same work in the country in your own name? Make the house a country resort for lame dogs who need a rest, for example? There would be plenty of applicants." "It's impossible! I can't explain. I can never return to `Pastimes' alone." I spoke shortly. The subject was difficult. So far, I had not thrashed it out even in thought. Mr Thorold shot a quick, keen glance. Instinctively, I knew where his thoughts were wandering. He was thinking of the bluff country Squire who had been so kind to his own little girls, remembering that he came from the same neighbourhood; that Evelyn Wastneys and he had been friends. The stupid colour flamed in my cheeks. I made haste to turn the conversation from myself. "It will make a difference to you, too. You will miss your friend!" "Yes, but--I have borne the great loss, Miss Wastneys; I can spare him gladly, to _his joy_. When one has known the completeness of a real marriage, and then been left alone, it would be impossible to grudge--My friends urge me to marry again; my girl herself said she wished it. If I had been less completely happy, I might have done it for the children's sake. As it is, I can never put another in her place. But I need a woman in my life. I feel that--but I want a mother, a sister, not a wife. Can't you evolve a _real_ Miss Harding, who will look after me and my poor bairns?" It was an hour later when the message came summoning us to return to the sitting-room. The two were standing to receive us--glorified beings, exalted above the earth. Oh, I can't write about it! We clung together. They spoke glowing words of love and thanks and appreciation; they looked past us into each other's eyes. It was wonderful, wonderful; but, oh, it made me feel desperately, desperately lonely!