“Once a monastery,” said Mr. Pepper.

Nothing more was said then, but, the day after, Mr. Pepper returned from a midday walk, and stood silently before Helen who was reading in the verandah.

“I’ve taken a room over there,” he said.

“You’re not going?” she exclaimed.

“On the whole—­yes,” he remarked.  “No private cook can cook vegetables.”

Knowing his dislike of questions, which she to some extent shared, Helen asked no more.  Still, an uneasy suspicion lurked in her mind that William was hiding a wound.  She flushed to think that her words, or her husband’s, or Rachel’s had penetrated and stung.  She was half-moved to cry, “Stop, William; explain!” and would have returned to the subject at luncheon if William had not shown himself inscrutable and chill, lifting fragments of salad on the point of his fork, with the gesture of a man pronging seaweed, detecting gravel, suspecting germs.

“If you all die of typhoid I won’t be responsible!” he snapped.

“If you die of dulness, neither will I,” Helen echoed in her heart.

She reflected that she had never yet asked him whether he had been in love.  They had got further and further from that subject instead of drawing nearer to it, and she could not help feeling it a relief when William Pepper, with all his knowledge, his microscope, his note-books, his genuine kindliness and good sense, but a certain dryness of soul, took his departure.  Also she could not help feeling it sad that friendships should end thus, although in this case to have the room empty was something of a comfort, and she tried to console herself with the reflection that one never knows how far other people feel the things they might be supposed to feel.

Chapter VIII

The next few months passed away, as many years can pass away, without definite events, and yet, if suddenly disturbed, it would be seen that such months or years had a character unlike others.  The three months which had passed had brought them to the beginning of March.  The climate had kept its promise, and the change of season from winter to spring had made very little difference, so that Helen, who was sitting in the drawing-room with a pen in her hand, could keep the windows open though a great fire of logs burnt on one side of her.  Below, the sea was still blue and the roofs still brown and white, though the day was fading rapidly.  It was dusk in the room, which, large and empty at all times, now appeared larger and emptier than usual.  Her own figure, as she sat writing with a pad on her knee, shared the general effect of size and lack of detail, for the flames which ran along the branches, suddenly devouring little green tufts, burnt intermittently and sent irregular illuminations across her face and the plaster walls.  There were no pictures on the walls but here and there boughs laden with heavy-petalled flowers spread widely against them.  Of the books fallen on the bare floor and heaped upon the large table, it was only possible in this light to trace the outline.