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Updated: June 26, 2025
In the midst of the confusion the drawing-room door had opened, and there on the threshold stood Delia Blanchflower, with a slightly-built lady behind her. Winnington turned with a start and went forward to greet them. Dr. France left behind in the bow-window observed their entry with a mingling of curiosity and repulsion.
As for Susy, in the restless intervals of restless sleep, she was always back in the Bridge End drawing-room watching Delia Blanchflower come in, with Mark Winnington behind. How glorious she looked! And every day he would be seeing her, every day he would be thinking about her just because she was sure to give him so much trouble.
Then last year his old father, a neighbour of mine in Hampshire, quite close to my little place, went and died, and Blanchflower came into a fortune and a good deal of land besides. And I remember hearing that he had thrown up the Colonial Service, had broken down in health, and was living abroad for some years to avoid the English climate. That's the man of course.
"Can't be helped, dear!" said Winnington, as he filled his pipe "I'm certain there'll be a row to-night, and I must catch this train!" "What, that horrid meeting! Delia Blanchflower lets you slave and slave for her, and never takes the smallest notice of your wishes or your advice! She ought to be ashamed!" The sister's mild tone trembled with indignation. "She isn't!" laughed Winnington.
It was strange to see Mark Winnington, with his traditional, English ways and feelings carried, as she always felt, to their highest thus face to face with the new feminist forces as embodied in Delia Blanchflower. He had resented, clearly resented, the introduction by her, Madeleine of the sex element into the problem. But how difficult to keep it out!
She was certain that he had entered upon the guardianship of Delia Blanchflower in complete single-mindedness confident, disdainfully confident, in his own immunity; and after that first outburst into which friendship had betrayed her, she had not dared to return to the subject.
"Miss Blanchflower?" said a smiling station-master, whose countenance seemed to be trying to preserve the due mean between welcome to the living and condolence for the dead, as, hat in hand, he approached the newcomers, and guided by her deep mourning addressed himself to Delia. "Why, Mr. Stebbing, I remember you quite well," said Delia, holding out her hand.
It was to her he had gone at once when the Blanchflower agent had come to him in dismay reporting the decision of Miss Blanchflower with regard to the half-witted girl whose third illegitimate child by a quite uncertain father had finally proved her need of protection both from men's vileness, and her own helplessness.
His common sense, his judgment were under no illusions at all about Delia Blanchflower. And yet This then was passion! which must be held down and reasoned down. He would reason it down. She must and should marry a man of her own generation youth with youth. And, moreover, to give way to these wild desires would be simply to alienate her, to destroy all his own power with her for good.
After the imposing musician had conducted one or two glees, there was a little rustle of preparation, and a girl stepped forth to sing. To the tradesmen of the town she was simply Polly Blanchflower, but to the thinking of one young man, who sat within a few yards of her, she ought to have been throned among stars.
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