She would have had better chances at Weston, notwithstanding the extreme discretion with which she was obliged to conduct herself.
While she mused thus, a profound discouragement settling on her sweet face, some one took a seat by her--on the same bench, that is to say.
Glancing aside, she saw that it was an oldish man, with grizzled whiskers and rather a stern visage.

Monica sighed.
Was it possible that he had heard her?
He looked this way, and with curiosity.

Ashamed of herself, she kept her eyes averted for a long time.

Presently, following the movement of a boat, her face turned unconsciously towards the silent companion; again he was looking at her, and he spoke.

The gravity of his appearance and manner, the good-natured commonplace that fell from his lips, could not alarm her; a dialogue began, and went on for about half an hour.
How old might he be?
After all, he was probably not fifty--perchance not much more than forty.