Lindsay tossed his cigarette away impatiently.

"Oh, I know exactly her way of saying that sort of thing!" he exclaimed.
"A moment later she would be describing very cleverly, and a little
regretfully, some wonderful sight or other only to be found in London."

"Really," she declared, "I am getting afraid of you. You are more
observant than I thought."

"There is one gift, at least," he answered, "which we country folk are
supposed to possess. We know truth when we see it. But I am saying more
than I have any right to. I don't want to make you angry, Clara!"

She shook her head.

"You won't do that," she said. "But I don't think you quite understand.
Let me tell you something. You know that I am an orphan, don't you? I do
not remember my father at all, and I can only just remember my mother. I
was brought up at a pleasant but very dreary boarding-school. I had very
few friends, and no one came to see me except my uncle, who was always
very kind, but always in a desperate hurry. I stayed there until I was
seventeen. Then my uncle came and fetched me, and brought me straight
here. Now that is exactly what my life has been. What do you think of
it?"

"Very dull indeed," he answered, frankly.

She nodded.

"I have never been in London at all," she continued. "I really only know