"Ah," she answered with a laugh. "But I am older now, and Blackcliff Hill is not the East Coast."
"And the novel is published," he said; and he added to himself as they walked away: "I wonder if her husband is still Anyhow, I'm not going to find out."
But Everilde Witherington was careful to let him know at their next meeting, which, by the way, did not take place on BlackclifF Hill, that her husband had gone abroad, and that she had come to stay with her great friend, the Squire's wife, to recover from the effects of influenza. After that the conversation flagged a little, and the interview was not such a success as the last one had been.
"You two don't seem to have much to talk about," said the Squire's wife, who was present; "what's the use of being old friends?"
"There isn't any use," said the novelist, "all the old subjects are used up, and we are not in touch with the new ones."
"And besides," added Mrs. Witherington, "the fact of your supposing us to be old friends prevents your joining in the conversation, although you are there all the time, don't you see."
"Oh, yes I see, thank you," said the Squire's wife; "two's company, three's none."
"Oh dear, no, I didn't mean that, really," said her friend; "and besides, that entirely depends on the other two. Some of the best times I have ever had have been with two other people."
"I should like to ask the two other people about that," said Allan.
About a month later they really did meet one evening on Blackcliff Hill, and this time without the Squire's wife.
Blackcliff Hill was a smooth, round chalk rising, covered with gorse and bramble and springy turf, a broad expanse of green
