A kindly gentleman who could and would care for her, according to her father. A man of her own breeding and stamp. Good blood, good looks, good family. But she said the first thing that came into her head, and was instantly sorry for it.
"That's the way they describe a pedigreed bull, out West!"
He got up, moved around the desk and opened the door for her.
"I see that I have been wasting my time," he said, and she went out.
Early in June they moved out to the country house, and one day she went out onto the terrace to see Herbert coming up the drive in his car.
"Won't you come and take a ride?" he asked. "I won't even talk, if you want to be quiet."
She went. Why not? They drove a couple of miles before she spoke.
"I'm glad you came, Herbert. I was feeling rather—lonely."
"I thought you might," he said quietly. "You see, I know what loneliness means."
She was warmed by that, somewhat comforted. After all, to be loved was something. It was easier than loving; it hurt less.
