“I don’t think ‘weakness’ expresses it,” she objected.  “He likes women to be subordinate, no doubt of that.  His idea is that”——­

“I know, I know!” Mrs. Wade turned away with a smile her companion did not observe.  “Let us walk back again; it grows chilly.  A beautiful sunset, if clouds don’t gather.  Perhaps it surprises you that I care for such sentimental things?”

“I think I understand you better.”

“Frankly—­do you think me what the French call hommasse?  Just a little?”

“Nothing of the kind, Mrs. Wade,” Lilian replied, with courage.  “You are a very womanly woman.”

The bright, hard eyes darted a quick glance at her.

“Really?  That is how I strike you?”

“It is, indeed.”

“How I like your way of speaking,” said the other, after a moment’s pause.  “I mean, your voice—­accent.  Has it anything to do with the long time you have spent abroad, I wonder?”

Lilian smiled and was embarrassed.

“You are certainly not a Londoner?”

“Oh no!  I was born in the west of England.”

“And I at Newcastle.  As a child I had a strong northern accent; you don’t notice anything of it now?  Oh, I have been about so much.  My husband was m the Army.  That is the first time I have mentioned him to you, and it will be the last, however long we know each other.”

Lilian kept her eyes on the ground.  The widow glanced off to a totally different subject, which occupied them the rest of the way back to the cottage.

Daylight lasted until they had finished tea, then a lamp was brought in and the red blind drawn down.  Quarrier had gone to spend the day at a neighbouring town, and would not be back before late in the evening, so that Lilian had arranged to go from Mrs. Wade’s to the Liversedges’.  They still had a couple of hours’ talk to enjoy; on Lilian’s side, at all events, it was unfeigned enjoyment.  The cosy little room put her at ease Its furniture was quite in keeping with the simple appearance of the house, but books and pictures told that no ordinary cottager dwelt here.

“I have had many an hour of happiness in this room,” said Mrs. Wade, as they seated themselves by the fire.  “The best of all between eleven at night and two in the morning.  You know the lines in ‘Penseroso.’  Most men would declare that a woman can’t possibly appreciate them; I know better.  I am by nature a student; the life of society is nothing to me; and, in reality, I care very little about politics.”

Smiling, she watched the effect of her words.

“You are content with solitude?” said Lilian, gazing at her with a look of deep interest.

“Quite.  I have no relatives who care anything about me, and only two or three people I call friends.  But I must have more books, and I shall be obliged to go to London.”

“Don’t go just yet—­won’t our books be of use to you?”