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"Oh then you mustn't look for her in pictures of passion. That's not her element nor her whereabouts." Mrs. Blessingbourne weighed the objection. "Does it not depend on what you mean by passion?" "I think I can mean only one thing: the enemy to behaviour." "Oh I can imagine passions that are on the contrary friends to it." Her fellow-guest thought.
Blessingbourne seemed unable to say, and yet at the same time to have her idea. The subject, in truth, she evidently found, was not so easy to handle. "People lend me things, and I try; but at the end of fifty pages " "There you are! Yes heaven help us!" "But what I mean," she went on, "isn't that I don't get woefully weary of the eternal French thing. What's THEIR sense of life?" "Ah voila!" Mrs.
"Oh you dear thing!" Her friend was amused, yet almost showed pity. "I know you don't read," Maud went on; "but why should you? YOU live!" "Yes wretchedly enough," Mrs. Dyott returned, getting her letters together. She left her place, holding them as a neat achieved handful, and came over to the fire, while Mrs. Blessingbourne turned once more to the window, where she was met by another flurry.
"You might while you were about it have burnt that too." "You've read it?" "Dear yes. And you?" "No," said Mrs. Dyott; "it wasn't for me Maud brought it." It pulled her visitor up. "Mrs. Blessingbourne brought it?" "For such a day as this." But she wondered. "How you look! Is it so awful?" "Oh like his others." Something had occurred to him; his thought was already far. "Does she know?"
Blessingbourne conceded without heeding it; "but that's the way we express ourselves in my part of the country." "I only alluded," said Voyt, "to the tremendous conscience of your sex. It's more than mine can keep up with. You take everything too hard. But if you can't read the novel of British and American manufacture, heaven knows I'm at one with you.
Where in the world, if you don't want, is your romance?" Mrs. Blessingbourne still wore her smile, and she now, with a light gesture that matched it, just touched the region of her heart. "There!" Her companion admiringly marvelled. "A lovely place for it, no doubt! but not quite a place, that I can see, to make the sentiment a relation." "Why not? What more is required for a relation for me?"
Maud Blessingbourne, when she lowered her book into her lap, closed her eyes with a conscious patience that seemed to say she waited; but it was nevertheless she who at last made the movement representing a snap of their tension. She got up and stood by the fire, into which she looked a minute; then came round and approached the window as if to see what was really going on. At this Mrs.
"How much you'll have to talk over together! The other one," she explained to him, "Maud speaks of as terribly tame." "Ah I must have that out with her! You don't feel the extraordinary force of the fellow?" Voyt went on to Mrs. Blessingbourne.
'Why don't you, cher monsieur, give us the drama of virtue? 'Because, chere madame, the high privilege of virtue is precisely to avoid drama. The adventures of the honest lady? The honest lady hasn't, can't possibly have, adventures." Mrs. Blessingbourne only met his eyes at first, smiling with some intensity. "Doesn't it depend a little on what you call adventures?" "My poor Maud," said Mrs.
And so, round the hearth, they talked talked soon, while they warmed their toes, with zest enough to make it seem as happy a chance as any of the quieter opportunities their imprisonment might have involved. Mrs. Blessingbourne did feel, it then appeared, the force of the fellow, but she had her reserves and reactions, in which Voyt was much interested. Mrs.
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