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Miss Aldclyffe formed one of what was called a Ladies' Association, each member of which collected tributary streams of shillings from her inferiors, to add to her own pound at the end. Miss Aldclyffe took particular interest in Cytherea's appearance that afternoon, and the object of her attention was, indeed, gratifying to look at.
The warm tint added to Cytherea's face a voluptuousness which youth and a simple life had not yet allowed to express itself there ordinarily; whilst in the elder lady's face it reduced the customary expression, which might have been called sternness, if not harshness, to grandeur, and warmed her decaying complexion with much of the youthful richness it plainly had once possessed.
The ordinary sadness of an autumnal evening-service seemed, in Cytherea's eyes, to be doubled on this particular occasion.
'Like some fair tree which, fed by streams, With timely fruit doth bend, He still shall flourish, and success All his designs attend. Cytherea's lips did not move, nor did any sound escape her; but could she help singing the words in the depths of her being, although the man to whom she applied them sat at her rival's side?
'Certainly, I know no more than you and others know it was a gratuitous unpleasantness in you to say you did not doubt me. Why should you, or anybody, have doubted me? 'Well, where is my sister? said Owen. 'Locked in the next room. His own answer reminded Manston that Cytherea must, by some inscrutable means, have had an inkling of the event. Owen had gone to the door of Cytherea's room.
Near the door, in an attitude weary yet obsequious, stood, paper in hand, a dejected figure in shabby plum-colour i.e. a poor author waiting in hopes that his sonnet in praise of Cytherea's triumphant charms would win his the guinea he so sorely needed, as To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, And heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muses' flame.
But, on turning round, he saw that the staircase and passage were quite deserted. He and his errand had as completely died from the minds of the attendants as if they had never been. There was absolutely nothing between him and Cytherea's presence. Reason was powerless now; he must see her right or wrong, fair or unfair to Manston offensive to her brother or no.
However, it doesn't matter to me now that I "meditate the thankless Muse" no longer, but.... He paused, as if endeavouring to think what better thing he did. Cytherea's mind ran on to the succeeding lines of the poem, and their startling harmony with the present situation suggested the fancy that he was 'sporting' with her, and brought an awkward contemplativeness to her face.
Nobody was yet in the church, and he walked round the aisles. From Cytherea's frequent description of how and where herself and others used to sit, he knew where to look for Manston's seat; and after two or three errors of examination he took up a prayer-book in which was written 'Eunice Manston. The book was nearly new, and the date of the writing about a month earlier.
Thus musing, as she waited for his return in the evening, her eyes fell on her left hand. The contemplation of her own left fourth finger by symbol-loving girlhood of this age is, it seems, very frequently, if not always, followed by a peculiar train of romantic ideas. Cytherea's thoughts, still playing about her future, became directed into this romantic groove.
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