Nothing less vivid would have met the case: to
exhibit her scarlet handkerchief to Ingram with a "There, see, I weep.
Tears of blood!" Day by day in that mild spring weather, under pale blue
skies, fanned by zephyrs, she could but pace the terrace walks, and
stiffen herself, and stare about her--with dull disapproval for the very
flowers, lest theirs, too, should be frail beauty, and repeat for her only
comfort that she was most uncomfortable. So she was. But it was because
she did not understand, not because she did. Curiosity ravaged her.
On one of these days, breakfast over at half-past ten, young Mr. Chevenix
declared his intention with cheerfulness and point. "Twentieth of April--
Dizzy's birthday, or Shakespeare's. Nevile, I'm going to fish your river.
They are leaping like the boys in _Eugene Aram,_ and I'm going to give
them something to leap at. Now, what are all you people going to do?
Because, I'll be free with you, I don't want you to come and look on. Mrs.
Devereux, I let you off. You needn't gillie me. Nevile, you run away and
play. Amuse Mrs. Wilmot. Do now: she likes it. I'm all right."
The elder lady fixed him keenly with a look which saw through his saucy
assurance; Ingram's eyes sought those of Mrs.
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