. . . Somewhere out of this infernal light. I want to
think. There must be somewhere, away from this light . . ." He broke
off. "At home, now, I can think. I am always thinking at home."
"At home . . ." the woman echoed.
"And you must think too?"
"Always: everywhere."
"Ah!" he ran on, as one talking against time: "but what do you suppose
I think about, nine times out of ten? Why"--and he uttered it with an
air of foolish triumph--"of the chances that we might meet . . . and
what would happen. Have you ever thought of that?"
"Always: everywhere . . . of that . . . and the children."
"Grace looks after them."
"I know. I get word. She is kind."
"You think of them?"
"Don't, Willy!"
He harked back. "Do you know, whenever I've thought of it . . . the
chance of our meeting . . . I've wondered what I should say. Hundreds
and hundreds of times I've made up my mind what to say. Why, only just
now--I've come from the theatre: I still go to the theatre sometimes;
it's a splendid thing to distract your thoughts: takes you out of
_yourself--Frou--Frou_, it was . . . the finest play in the world . . .
next to _East Lynne_. It made me cry, to-night, and the people in the
pit stared at me. But one mustn't be ashamed of a little honest
emotion, before strangers. And when a thing comes _home_ to a man . . .
So you've thought of it too--the chance of our running against one
another?"
"Every day and all the day long I've gone fearing it: especially in
March and September, when I knew you'd be up in town buying for the
season.
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