"Won't you wait till you've finished your tea?" she asked.
"I have finished."
"No more?"
"No, thanks. Do you mind my smoking?"
She lit a match for him in answer--held it out, waiting while he
extracted the cigarette from his case.
"Now tell me," he said, when she had thrown the match away.
She gazed for a moment in the grate, at the kettle breathing
contentedly on the gas stove.
"I'm lonely," she said, turning to his eyes.
He met her gaze as well as he could. He knew she was lonely.
Conscience--conscience that no strength of will could override--had
often pricked him on that point. But what was a conscience? He would
not have believed himself guilty of the weakness at any other time.
He gave no rein to it.
"But you'll get over that," he said. "You'll get over that."
"I don't think so."
"But why not? Perhaps you give way to it. Find yourself plenty to
do. Keep yourself moving. You won't be lonely then."
"I know. But do what?"
"Well," the question faced him. He had to answer it. "Well, you're
fond of reading, aren't you?"
"Reading!"
"And you've got these rooms to keep straight. A good many women if
they thought they'd got to tidy up two rooms every day would grumble
at the amount of labour, because it took up so much of their time.
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