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Porcher's engagement, too, and then this bad news of Mr. Iglesias not but that I am sure enough we shall meet him in heaven some day, if we can ever contrive to get there ourselves in all this chatter and worry " She laid the handkerchief away in the drawer of the work-table. "Such an afternoon," she declared, "what with one thing and another!
Iglesias's great relief, deciding against attempt of entry, continued their cheerless progress down to the hall below. Yet, just now Iglesias could have found it in his heart to envy the man, notwithstanding his unsavouriness of attitude and aspect. For in him ambition still stirred.
By which time, Fallowfeild says, the mourning warehouses here at home will have made a record turnover, and there will be altogether too many new graveyards for comfort in South Africa." Poppy paused in her harangue, for Dominic Iglesias had set down his cup, its contents untasted. He was sad at heart. "Are you going?" she asked. "Yes," he answered. "It grows late. It's time I went, I think."
And your rooms are delightful they're like you, too. The rest of the house? My dear soul, the manservant ushered me into a drawing-room, when I arrived, the colours of which were simply frantic. I bolted. If I'd stayed another five minutes they'd have given me lockjaw. Now I must go." She smiled very sweetly upon Mr. Iglesias. "I'm better, ten thousand times better," she said.
"After all," she cried, "I don't so much as know your name; and so, thank heaven, it can't be so very difficult to forget you." Her aspect moved Iglesias strangely, seeming as it did to embody the very spirit of the angry sky, of the gloomy river, all the sorrow of the dead summer and stormy autumn light. For a moment he watched her in silence.
He ceased speaking abruptly, jammed the brake down with his heel in response to the conductor's bell, and drew the sweating horses up short to permit the ingress of fresh passengers. This accomplished, the omnibus lumbered onwards while Dominic Iglesias fell into further meditation.
I never saw you before in evening dress, and you're more grand seigneur than ever. But something's happened to you. I can't tell off-hand what it is, whether you've come on or gone back. But you're altered." "I have had an illness," Iglesias said simply; "and I have been very unhappy." "Neither of those are good enough," Poppy answered. "The alteration is right inside you, in your soul.
"No, not all," Iglesias answered, with a certain subdued enthusiasm. "There are things a few which never grow stale. One may build on them as on a foundation of rock. If they ever seem to fail us, to be shaken and overthrown, it is an evil delusion, and the cause lies not in them but in ourselves. It is we who fail, who are shaken and overthrown through palsied will and feebleness of faith.
Softly at first, and then with richer diapason, the cedar tree greeted its mysterious comrade, singing of far-distant times and places, and of the permanence of nature as against the fitful evanescent life of man. That husky singing soothed Dominic Iglesias, and calmed him, assuring him that in the hands of the Almighty are all things, small and great, past, present, and to come.
Iglesias asked. "But you are going away. The wife told me she heard you were leaving London altogether; whether to I hardly like to mention the supposition to join some brotherhood or or, to be married, she did not know." Mr. Iglesias shook his head, smiling sweetly and bravely. "Oh! no, no, my dear fellow," he answered. "Rumour must have been rather unpardonably busy with my name.
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