nxious
for her to leave the room so that he might ask Evelyn if she
remembered the chickens they used to eat in France.

"Evelyn, dear, shall we ever be in France again?"

"My poor little boys, what would happen to them while I was away? For
you, who care about sweets, Owen, I'm afraid Eliza will seem a little
behind the times; afraid of a failure, we decided on a rice pudding."

"Excellent; I should like nothing better."

Owen was in good humour, and she asked him if he had brought
something to smoke--a cigar.

"Some cigarettes. I have given up smoking cigars, stinking things!"

"But you used to be so fond of cigars, Owen?"

"Oh, a long time ago. Didn't you notice that man in the trap in front
of us as we came from the station? That vile cigar, the whole evening
smelt of it."

"My dear Owen!"

Then he got up from the table and went to the piano and waited there
for Evelyn, who was talking to Eliza about the purchase of another
bed and where it should be placed in the dormitory, a matter so
trivial that a dozen words should suffice to settle it, so he
thought; but they kept on talking, and when Eliza left the room she
took up some coarse sewing. To bring her to the piano he struck a few
notes, saying:

"The Muses are awake, Evelyn."

"No, Owen, no; I am in no mood for singing."

When he asked her if she never sang, the answer was, "Sometimes I go
to the piano when I am restless; I sing a little, yes, a little into
my muff; you know what I mean. But this evening I would sooner talk.
You said we had so much to talk about." He admitted she knew what his
feelings were better than he knew them himself. It would be a pity to
waste this evening in music (this evening was consecrate to
themselves), and from talking of Elizabeth and Isolde they drifted
into remembrances of the old days so dear to him. But he had always
reproached Evelyn with a fault, a certain restlessness; it was rare
for her to settle herself down to a nice quiet chat, and this was a
serious fault in a woman, a fault in everybody, for a nice quiet chat
is one of the best things in life. He was prone to admit, however,
that when the mood for a chat was upon her nobody could talk or
listen as she could by a fireside. Yielding to her humour, like a
bird she would talk on and on with an enthusiasm and an interest in
what she was saying which made her a wonder and a delight; and seeing
that by some good fortune he had come upon her in one of these r