“Law, Sir Owen!” And Eliza went back to the kitchen to fetch her vegetables, and Evelyn laughed, saying: 

“You have succeeded in impressing her.”

“You have cooked the chicken excellently well, Eliza, and the butter you used must have been particularly good,” he said, when the servant returned with the potatoes and brussels sprouts.  But he was anxious 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 rare humours, he did not regret her refusal