“Do you like being on your own?”

His clear, greenish-grey eyes rested on her a moment, and, as he considered, he did not see her.

“I suppose so,” he said. “You see my father — well, he was never acclimatized here.

He wanted — I don't know what he wanted — but it was a strain. And my mother — I always knew she was too good to me. I could feel her being too good to me — my mother! Then I went away to school so early. And I must say, the outside world was always more naturally a home to me than the vicarage — I don't know why.”

“Do you feel like a bird blown out of its own latitude?” she asked, using a phrase she had met.