enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.
“I had got an idea — I dare say wrongly — that you feel more at home with me in a room.”
“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.
“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”
“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”
“I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view — a certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?”
She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: