Page:The Yellow Book - 04.djvu/297

Rh "Nor the husband," he rejoined ruthlessly.

They sat down near the top of the hill, and wished for the Squire's wife.

"It's very odd," said the novelist.

"Odd? I call it dull."

"Dull, then, if you like. I wonder who invented the ridiculous idea of two people marrying and living happily ever after. It must have been the first man who wrote for money."

"All the same, I'm rather disappointed," said Mrs. Witherington, gazing steadily at the three counties.

"What about? That you can't fall in love with me now that there is nothing against our marrying?"

"Oh no, not that," she said.

"What then?"

"Oh, well, only that I hoped, just a little you know, that you might still like me enough to—to ask me, so that I could—oh, bother!"

"So that you could have the intense pleasure of refusing me? Sorry I disappointed you."

"We can go on being chums, though, can't we?" she suggested, pulling up handfuls of moss.

"Oh, don't," he groaned, "do be a little more original than that. You are not writing for money, are you?"

"Then," she cried desperately, "there is nothing left but the sunset; and what's the use of that when you can't see it?"

"Can't I?" he said in a curious tone, "don't I know that it has just got down to the line of fir-trees along the canal, and is streaking across the cornfield, and making the hills on this side look warm?"

He was sheltering his eyes from the sun with his hand as he spoke, and Everilde turned and stared at him suddenly.