“How should you like to live there?” he asked as the train moved on.
“In some such place, I mean. One might do worse, don’t you think so? There must be at least two centuries of solitude under those yew-trees. Shouldn’t you like it?”
“I--I don’t know,” she faltered. She knew now that he meant to speak.
He lit another cigarette. “We shall have to live somewhere, you know,” he said as he bent above the match.
Lydia tried to speak carelessly. “_Je n’en vois pas la nécessité!_ Why not live everywhere, as we have been doing?”
“Oh, forever’s a long word,” she objected, picking up the review he had thrown aside.
“For the rest of our lives then,” he said, moving nearer.
She made a slight gesture which caused his hand to slip from hers.
“Why should we make plans? I thought you agreed with me that it’s pleasanter to drift.”
He looked at her hesitatingly. “It’s been pleasant, certainly; but I suppose I shall have to get at my work again some day. You know I haven’t written a line since--all this time,” he hastily emended.
She flamed with sympathy and self-reproach. “Oh, if you mean _that_--if you want to write--of course we must settle down. How stupid of me not to have thought of it sooner! Where shall we go? Where do you think you could work best? We oughtn’t to lose any more time.”
He hesitated again. “I had thought of a villa in these parts. It’s quiet; we shouldn’t be bothered. Should you like it?”
“Of course I should like it.” She paused and looked away. “But I thought--I remember your telling me once that your best work had been done in a crowd--in big cities. Why should you shut yourself up in a desert?”
Gannett, for a moment, made no reply. At length he said, avoiding her eye as carefully as she avoided his: “It might be different now; I can’t tell, of course, till I try. A writer ought not to be dependent on his _milieu_; it’s a mistake to humor oneself in that way; and I thought that just at first you might prefer to be--”
“What do you mean by ‘at first’?” she interrupted.
He paused again. “I mean after we are married.”
She thrust up her chin and turned toward the window. “Thank you!” she tossed back at him.
“Lydia!” he exclaimed blankly; and she felt in every fibre of her averted person that he had made the inconceivable, the unpardonable mistake of anticipating her acquiescence.