"
Mrs. Wilmot, who had no general conversation, thought that they ought to
be "nice" to Mrs. Devereux; to which Ingram replied, snarling, that he was
always "nice" to her, but that if a woman will spend her time writing
letters or disapproving of her host, she can't expect to be happy in such
a world as ours. But the worst of Mrs. Devereux, he went on to say, was
that she couldn't be happy unless she did disapprove of somebody. Mrs.
Wilmot, aware of whom the lady did disapprove, dug holes in the turf, and
wondered what she herself ought to do. Supposing Mrs. Devereux went on
Monday, ought not she--? Now, she didn't at all want to go just now.
At luncheon Ingram proposed a visit--to certain Sowerbys of Sowerby, and
pointedly asked Mrs. Devereux to come. "You like her, you know. It's
beyond dispute. So I do hope you'll come. I'll drive you over in the
phaeton."
Mrs. Devereux agreed to go. Chevenix said that he should fish. He hated
calling--except on Mrs. Devereux, of course. He braved the discerning eyes
of the lady, who had already caught him at his fishing.
The phaeton safely away, he found Sanchia, as he had hoped, in the garden.
Her gauntlets were on, an apron covered her; she was flushed with the
exercise of the hoe.
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