Woodhouse, after being away so long?"
Her way of speaking was so quiet, as if she hardly spoke aloud.

"Well," he answered. "I find it the same in many ways."

"You wouldn't like to settle here again?"

"I don't think I should. It feels a little cramped, you know, after
a new country. But it has its attractions." Here he smiled
meaningful.

"Yes," said Miss Pinnegar. "I suppose the old connections count for
something."

"They do. Oh decidedly they do. There's no associations like the old
ones." He smiled flatly as he looked towards Alvina.

"You find it so, do you!" returned Miss Pinnegar. "You don't find
that the new connections make up for the old?"

"Not altogether, they don't. There's something missing--" Again he
looked towards Alvina. But she did not answer his look.

"Well," said Miss Pinnegar. "I'm glad we still count for something,
in spite of the greater attractions. How long have you in England?"

"Another year. Just a year. This time next year I expect I shall be
sailing back to the Cape." He smiled as if in anticipation. Yet it
was hard to believe that it mattered to him--or that anything
mattered.

"And is Oxford agreeable to you?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. I keep myself busy."

"What are your subjects?" asked James.

"English and History. But I do mental science for my own interest."

Alvina had taken up a piece of sewing. She sat under the light,
brooding a little. What _had_ all this to do with her. The man
talked on, and beamed in her direction. And she felt a little
important. But moved or touched?--not the least in the world.

She wondered if any one would ask him to supper--bread and cheese
and currant-loaf, and water, was all that offered. No one asked him,
and at last he rose.

"Show Mr. Witham out through the shop, Alvina," said Miss Pinnegar.

Alvina piloted the man through the long, dark, encumbered way of the
shop. At the door he said:

"You've never said whether you're coming to tea on Thursday."

"I don't think I can," said Alvina.

He seemed rather taken aback.

"Why?" he said. "What stops you?"

"I've so much to do."

He smiled slowly and satirically.

"Won't it keep?" he said.

"No, really. I can't come on Thursday--thank you so much.
Good-night!" She gave him her hand and turned quickly into the shop,
closing the door. He remained standing in the porch, staring at the
closed door. Then, lifting his lip, he turned away.

"Well," said Miss Pinnegar decidedly,