He grew quite
uncomfortable, as he sat and saw her glancing all the while furtively
away from his wife and himself, and presently he got up and strolled
away to the other end of the garden, where he lit his pipe and walked to
and fro on the gravel walk, still astounded at the gulf between the real
and the imagined woman. Presently he heard a hissing whisper, and he saw Mrs. Nixon's head
inclining to his wife's. Mary rose and came towards him. 'Would you mind sitting in the drawing-room, Edward?' she murmured. 'Aunt says she can't bring herself to discuss such a delicate matter
before you. I dare say it's quite natural.' 'Very well, but I don't think I'll go into the drawing-room. I feel as
if a walk would do me good. You mustn't be frightened if I am a little
late,' he said; 'if I don't get back before your aunt goes, say good-bye
to her for me.' He strolled into the main road, where the trams were humming to and fro. He was still confused and perplexed, and he tried to account for a
certain relief he felt in removing himself from the presence of Mrs.
Nixon. He told himself that her grief at her husband's ruffianly conduct
was worthy of all pitiful respect, but at the same time, to his shame,
he had felt a certain physical aversion from her as she sat in his
garden in her dingy black, dabbing her red-rimmed eyes with a damp
pocket-handkerchief. He had been to the Zoo when he was a lad, and he
still remembered how he had shrunk with horror at the sight of certain
reptiles slowly crawling over one another in their slimy pond. But he
was enraged at the similarity between the two sensations, and he walked
briskly on that level and monotonous road, looking about him at the
unhandsome spectacle of suburban London keeping Sunday. There was something in the tinge of antiquity which still exists in
Acton that soothed his mind and drew it away from those unpleasant
contemplations, and when at last he had penetrated rampart after rampart
of brick, and heard no more the harsh shrieks and laughter of the people
who were enjoying themselves, he found a way into a little sheltered
field, and sat down in peace beneath a tree, whence he could look out on
a pleasant valley. The sun sank down beneath the hills, the clouds
changed into the likeness of blossoming rose-gardens; and he still sat
there in the gathering darkness till a cool breeze blew upon him, and
he rose with a sigh, and turned back to the brick ramparts and the
glimmering streets, and the noisy idlers sauntering to and fro in the
procession of their dismal festival. But he was murmuring to himself
some words that seemed a magic song, and it was with uplifted heart that
he let himself into his house. Mrs. Nixon had gone an hour and a half before his return, Mary told him. Darnell sighed with relief, and he and his wife strolled out into the
garden and sat down side by side. They kept silence for a time, and at last Mary spoke, not without a
nervous tremor in her voice. 'I must tell you, Edward,' she began, 'that aunt has made a proposal
which you ought to hear. I think we should consider it.' 'A proposal? But how about the whole affair? Is it still going on?' 'Oh, yes! She told me all about it. Uncle is quite unrepentant. It seems
he has taken a flat somewhere in town for that woman, and furnished it
in the most costly manner. He simply laughs at aunt's reproaches, and
says he means to have some fun at last. You saw how broken she was?' 'Yes; very sad. But won't he give her any money? Wasn't she very badly
dressed for a woman in her position?' 'Aunt has no end of beautiful things, but I fancy she likes to hoard
them; she has a horror of spoiling her dresses. It isn't for want of
money, I assure you, as uncle settled a very large sum on her two years
ago, when he was everything that could be desired as a husband. And that
brings me to what I want to say. Aunt would like to live with us. She
would pay very liberally. What do you say?' 'Would like to live with us?' exclaimed Darnell, and his pipe dropped
from his hand on to the grass. He was stupefied by the thought of Aunt
Marian as a boarder, and sat staring vacantly before him, wondering what
new monster the night would next produce. 'I knew you wouldn't much like the idea,' his wife went on. 'But I do
think, dearest, that we ought not to refuse without very serious
consideration. I am afraid you did not take to poor aunt very much.' Darnell shook his head dumbly. 'I thought you didn't; she was so upset, poor thing, and you didn't see
her at her best. She is really so good. But listen to me, dear. Do you
think we have the right to refuse her offer? I told you she has money of
her own, and I am sure she would be dreadfully offended if we said we
wouldn't have her. And what would become of me if anything happened to
you? You know we have very little saved.' Darnell groaned. 'It seems to me,' he said, 'that it would spoil everything. We are so
happy, Mary dear, by ourselves. Of course I am extremely sorry for your
aunt. I think she is very much to be pitied. But when it comes to having
her always here----'

'I know, dear. Don't think I am looking forward to the prospect; you
know I don't want anybody but you. Still, we ought to think of the
future, and besides we shall be able to live so very much better. I
shall be able to give you all sorts of nice things that I know you ought
to have after all that hard work in the City. Our income would be
doubled.' 'Do you mean she would pay us £150 a year?' 'Certainly. And she would pay for the spare room being furnished, and
any extra she might want. She told me, specially, that if a friend or
two came now and again to see her, she would gladly bear the cost of a
fire in the drawing-room, and give something towards the gas bill, with
a few shillings for the girl for any additional trouble. We should
certainly be more than twice as well off as we are now. You see, Edward,
dear, it's not the sort of offer we are likely to have again. Besides,
we must think of the future, as I said. Do you know aunt took a great
fancy to you?' He shuddered and said nothing, and his wife went on with her argument. 'And, you see, it isn't as if we should see so very much of her. She
will have her breakfast in bed, and she told me she would often go up to
her room in the evening directly after dinner. I thought that very nice
and considerate. She quite understands that we shouldn't like to have a
third person always with us. Don't you think, Edward, that, considering
everything, we ought to say we will have her?' 'Oh, I suppose so,' he groaned. 'As you say, it's a very good offer,
financially, and I am afraid it would be very imprudent to refuse. But I
don't like the notion, I confess.' 'I am so glad you agree with me, dear. Depend upon it, it won't be half
so bad as you think. And putting our own advantage on one side, we shall
really be doing poor aunt a very great kindness.