She had been fluttered, positively felt her heart-beats,
as she sailed down in pursuit; but then Sanchia, under the brim of her
garden hat, must have divined her, for, with a few clear words of
direction over her shoulder to the young gardener who was helping her, she
had steered smoothly away, and, without running, could not have been
caught. The thing was marked, not uncivilly, but quite clearly. What could
one do?
Two more days of fine weather and perplexity, and she announced her
departure as imminent. We were at Thursday. She must positively leave on
Monday. "No more letters to write about my shortcomings," was Ingram's
comment upon this intelligence to Mrs. Wilmot apart. "It's a mistake to
have people to stay with you who've known you all their lives. They are
for ever at their contrasts: why isn't one still a chubby-faced boy, for
instance? They see you in an Eton jacket once, and you're printed in it
for ever. So you glare by contrast, you hurt, you wound. In other words,
you have character, you see, which is dashed inconvenient to a woman who
remembers you with none. You upset her calculations--and sometimes she
upsets yours. No offence to Mrs. Devereux; but I rather wish she hadn't
come.
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