It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I think it did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that night uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to confess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still. I would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright old lady's confidence if I could have possibly declined it. It gave me the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I thought she was a story-teller, and at another time that she was the pink of truth. Now I suspected that she was very cunning, next moment I believed her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple. And after all, what did it matter to me, and why did it matter to me? Why could not I, going up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit down by her fire and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at least as well as to anybody else, and not trouble myself about the harmless things she said to me? Impelled towards her, as I certainly was, for I was very anxious that she should like me and was very glad indeed that she did, why should I harp afterwards, with actual distress and pain, on every word she said and weigh it over and over again in twenty scales? Why was it so worrying to me to have her in our house, and confidential to me every night, when I yet felt that it was better and safer somehow that she should be there than anywhere else? These were perplexities and contradictions that I could not account for. At least, if I could--but I shall come to all that by and by, and it is mere idleness to go on about it now.

It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but it did. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to confess it even to Ada. I would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright old lady's confidence; it gave me the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I thought she was a story-teller, and next moment I believed her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple.
And after all, why did it matter to me? Why did I trouble myself about the harmless things she said? I was certainly very anxious that she should like me and was very glad that she did, but why should I harp afterwards, with distress and pain, on every word she said and weigh it over and over again in twenty scales? These were perplexities that I could not account for. At least, if I could - but I shall come to all that by and by.
