I even think I don't do them badly, but the world is not of my opinion—yet. As to what I would like to do—well, one has one's dreams, of course. . ."
"I beg your pardon," said Jane, stiffening, "I didn't mean to be inquisitive."
"You aren't. You couldn't be. It's only too gracious of you to take the faintest interest. All I meant was that my dreams would waste too much of your time if I let myself begin to bore you with them. Besides, I must not dream any more for a long time. I must work. And I would rather work out of doors."
Lucilla was still saying nothing so carefully that Jane, without looking at her, knew that she was in an agony of anxiety as to how they should get rid of this new and shockingly undesirable acquaintance. This inexplicably deepened her own resolve not to get rid of him, but to stand by him in his trouble as one human being should stand by another.
"Out of doors?" she repeated. "Do you mean farm work or . . ." She smiled encouragingly at him. (Poor fellow, who knew how long it was since anyone had smiled at him? she thought.)
"I was really thinking of gardening," he said, smiling back at her. "I would be contented with quite small wages. I want to be out of doors. I want to get strong again after . . . I was brought up in Kent. My people had a farm. I know a good bit about gardens. I suppose you don't know anyone who wants a gardener?"
"Yes," said Jane resolutely, "we do!"
Then Lucilla spoke.
"Oh, Jane," she said, "how can you!"
"I beg your pardon?" said Jane, with frigid politeness.
"I mean," Lucilla tried to explain, "we hadn't really decided on a gardener, had we? And I don't know that we can afford it."
"You see"—Jane turned to the self-confessed jail-bird with a smile nicely calculated to efface anything that might have been unpleasing in Lucilla's words—"my friend is deter-
