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Chapter 22

           "Don’tletustalkaboutitforHeaven’ssake!"Isaidirritably—"Iknowmyworklackssomething—andthatsomethingmaybewhatyousayoritmaynot—Idonotwanttothinkaboutit.Letitperish,asitassuredlywill;perhapsinthefutureImaydobetter."

           Hewassilent—andfinishinghiscigar,threwtheendawayinthegrasswhereitburnedlikeadullredcoal.

           "Imustturnin,"hethenobserved—"Ihaveafewmoredirectionstogivetotheservantsforto-morrow.IshallgotomyroomassoonasIhavedone—soI’llsaygood-night."

           "Butsurelyyouaretakingtoomuchpersonaltrouble,"—Isaid—"Can’tIhelpinanyway?"

           "No,youcan’t,"—heansweredsmiling."WhenIundertaketodoanythingIliketodoitinmyownfashion,ornotatall.Sleepwell,andriseearly."

           Henodded,andsaunteredslowlyawayoverthedewygrass.Iwatchedhisdarktallfigurerecedingtillhehadenteredthehouse;then,lightingafreshcigar,Iwanderedonalonethroughthegrounds,notinghereandtherefloweryarboursanddaintysilkpavilionserectedinpicturesquenooksandcornersforthemorrow.Ilookedupatthesky;itwasclearandbright—therewouldbenorain.PresentlyIopenedthewicket-gatethatledintotheouterby-road,andwalkingonslowly,almostunconsciously,Ifoundmyselfinafewminutesopposite‘LilyCottage.’ApproachingthegateIlookedin—theprettyoldhousewasdark,silentanddeserted.

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