“Have you brought your pipe?” she asked, when they had drank their tea.

“May I smoke?”

“Of course,—­just as you used to.”

“But it is not the same,” Waymark said, half to himself.

“Are you sorry for the change?” Ida asked, as she handed him a box of matches.

“What induced you to make it?”

“Oh, I have strange fancies.  The idea came, just like others do.  Are you sorry?”

“The opposite.  Did the idea come whilst we were at Hastings?”

“Before that.  Do you remember my telling you that I had a letter calling me back to London?”

Waymark nodded.

“It was from the laundry, to say I could go to work as soon as I liked.”

“And why didn’t you tell me that?”

Ida seemed about to reply, but altered her intention, and, after being silent for a moment, asked another question.

“Did you think you would ever hear from me?”

“I had given up hope.”

“And did you wonder what had become of me?”

“Often.  Why didn’t you write before?”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“What does that mean?” Waymark asked, looking closely at her.

“Perhaps I shall be able to explain some day.  If not, well, it won’t matter.”

“And will you let me see you often?” said Waymark, after thinking a little.  “Are we to be friends again, as we used to be?”

“If you would care for it.”

Waymark turned away as their eyes met.

“Certainly I should care for it,” he said, feeling all at once a difficulty in speaking naturally.  Then he looked at Ida again; she was bending down and stroking Grim’s ears.  There was rather a long silence, which Waymark at length forced himself to break.

“Shall I bring you books again?” he said.

“I have very little time for reading,” was Ida’s reply.  “It’s better, perhaps, that it is so.”

“But why?”

“Perhaps it would make me discontented with my work, and want all sorts of things I couldn’t have.”

“You have your Sundays free?” Waymark said, after another rather long silence.

“Yes.”

“Then we must have some expeditions again, now that the fine days have come.  By the by, do you ever see Sally?”

Ida looked up with a smile and said, “Yes; do you?”

“No; but I hear of her.”

“From your friend?”

“Yes, from O’Gree.”

“Do your other friends still live near you?” Ida asked, speaking quickly, as if to interrupt what Waymark was about to say.

“The Castis?  Oh yes.”

“What is Mrs. Casti like?” she said, in a tone which attracted Waymark’s attention.

“Well,” he replied, “it’s difficult to describe her.  There’s nothing very good about her, and I suppose nothing very bad.  I see little of her now; she’s almost always ill.”

“What’s the matter with her?”