He was to be alone with Mary to-day, in the orchard.
* * * * *
The window of the Vicar's study raked the orchard. But that didn't
matter, for the Vicar was not at home this Wednesday.
The orchard waited for them. Two wicker-work armchairs and the little
round tea-table were set out under the trees. Mary's knitting lay in
one of the chairs. She had the habit of knitting while she talked, or
while Rowcliffe talked and she listened. The act of knitting disposed
her to long silences. It also occupied her, so that Rowcliffe, when he
liked, could be silent too.
But generally he talked and Mary listened.
They hadn't many subjects. But Mary made the most of what they had.
And she always knew the precise moment when Rowcliffe had ceased to
be interested in any one of them. She knew, as if by instinct, all his
moments.
They were talking now, at tea-time, about the Widow Gale. Mary wanted
to know how the poor thing was getting on. The Widow Gale had been
rather badly shaken and she had bruised her poor old head and one
hip. But she wouldn't fall out of bed again to-night. Rowcliffe had
barricaded the bed with a chest of drawers. Afterward there must be a
rail or something.
Mary was interested in the Widow Gale as long as Rowcliffe liked to
talk about her. But the Widow Gale didn't carry them very far.
What would have carried them far was Rowcliffe himself. But Rowcliffe
never wanted to talk about himself to Mary.
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