She was staring
across at the cherry-coloured carnations in the pewter vase on the
mantelpiece.
As has been said, they often exchanged ideas without words.
He remarked, as she glanced at a book: 'Yes, I have read _A Life of
Slavery_. Have you? Do you think it good?'
'Splendid,' Edith answered; 'it's a labour of hate.'
He laughed.
'Quite true. One can't call it a labour of love, though it was written
to please the writer--not the public.'
'I wonder you could read it,' said Edith, 'after what you've been
through.'
'It took my thoughts off life,' he said.
'Why? Isn't it life?'
'Of course it is. Literary life.'
Edith looked at the clock.
'When am I going to see you again?' he asked in a rather exhausted
voice.
'Whenever you like. What about taking you out for a drive next week?'
'Right.'
'I'll think over what you said,' said Edith casually as she stood up.
'What a funny little speech. You're _impayable_! Oh, you are a jolly
girl!'
'"Jolly" girl,' repeated Edith, not apparently pleased. 'I'm
thirty-five, with a boy at school and a growing girl of seven!'
'You think too much of the almanac. I'm forty-one, with a son at the
front.
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