It was about nine months since she had become a widow. She was alone in
the big beautifully furnished drawing-room, which was just as of old.
Except that a neat maid had opened the door, instead of a butler, he saw
no change.

Rose looked a little nervous for a moment, and then frankly pleased to
see him. Edmund always had a talent for seeming to be as natural in any
house as if he were the husband or the brother or part of the furniture.
Somehow, as Rose gave him tea and they settled into a chat, she felt as
if he had been there very often lately, whereas in fact she had not seen
him since David died, except at the memorial service. He began to tell
her what visits he had paid, whom he had seen, the little gossip he
expressed so well in his gentle, sleepy voice; and then he drew her on
as to her own interests, her charities, her work for the soldiers'
wives. He said nothing more that day, but he dropped in again soon, and
then again.

At last one evening he observed quite quietly, in a pause in their talk:
"So you live here on £800 a year?"

Rose did not feel annoyed, though she did not know why she was not
angry.

"Yes, I can manage," she said simply.

"You can't tell yet; it's too soon." He got up out of his low chair near
the fireplace, now filled with plants, and stood with his back against
the chimney. "You know it's absurd," he said. Rose moved uneasily and
was silent.