I STAYED him there while I put it to him that he would probably in fact prefer to go back.

“You’re not going then yourself?”

“No, I don't particularly want tea; and I may as well now confess to you that I’m taking a lonely, unsociable walk. I don't enjoy such occasions as these,” I said, “unless I from time to time get off by myself somewhere long enough to tell myself how much I do enjoy them. That's what I was cultivating solitude for when I happened just now to come upon you. When I found you there with Lady John there was nothing for me but to make the best of it; but I’m glad of this chance to assure you that, every appearance to the contrary notwithstanding, I wasn't prowling about in search of you.”

“Well,” my companion frankly replied, “I’m glad you turned up. I wasn't especially amusing myself.”

“Oh, I think I know how little!”

He fixed me a moment with his pathetic old face, and I knew more than ever that I was sorry for him. I was quite extraordinarily sorry, and I wondered whether I mightn't without offence or indiscretion really let him see it. It was to this end I had held him and wanted a little to keep him, and I was reassured as I felt him, though I had now released him, linger instead of leaving me. I had made him uneasy last night, and a new reason or two for my doing so had possibly even since then come up; yet these things also would depend on the way he might take them. The look with which he at present faced me seemed to hint that he would take them as I hoped, and there was no curtness, but on the contrary the dawn of a dim sense that I might possibly aid him, in the tone with which he came half-way. “You ‘know’?”

“Ah,” I laughed, “I know everything!”

He didn't laugh; I hadn't seen him laugh, at Newmarch, once; he was continuously, portentously grave, and I at present remembered how the effect of this had told for me at luncheon, contrasted as it was with that of Mrs. Server's desperate, exquisite levity.