He was not at all the young fool of fiction. There was a remarkable virility about him, he was tenderhearted to a degree, he had more than his share of brains. It was intolerable that such a person should be so silly.
She wondered what sorrow would do for him. She had come down from Scotland the night before, and down here to Hertfordshire this morning; she had not then yet seen him; and he was now at the funeral. …
Well, sorrow would be his test. How would he take it?
Mrs. Baxter broke in on her meditations.
“Maggy, darling … do you think you can do anything? You know I once hoped. …”
The girl looked up suddenly, with so vivid an air that it was an interruption. The old lady broke off.
“Well, well,” she said. “But is it quite impossible that—”
“Please, don’t. I—I can’t talk about that. It’s impossible—utterly impossible.”
The old lady sighed; then she said suddenly, looking at the clock above the oak mantelshelf, “It is half-past. I expect—”
She broke off as the front door was heard to open and close beyond the hall, and waited, paling a little, as steps sounded on the flags; but the steps went up the stairs outside, and there was silence again.
“He has come back,” she said. “Oh! my dear.”
“How shall you treat him?” asked the girl curiously.
The old lady bent again over her embroidery.