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"No, you don't; not even the hard things a really generous nature often would." She quitted, however, as if to forget that, the chimney-place. "I put it THERE!" "You've burnt it? Good!" It made him easier, but he noticed the next moment on a table the lemon-coloured volume left there by Mrs. Blessingbourne, and, taking it up for a look, immediately put it down.
"How could you show it too much?" "Because I always feel that that's my only way of showing anything. It's absurd, if you like," Mrs. Blessingbourne pursued, "but I never know, in such intense discussions, what strange impression I may give." Her companion looked amused. "Was it intense?" "I was," Maud frankly confessed. "Then it's a pity you were so wrong. Colonel Voyt, you know, is right." Mrs.
Blessingbourne at this gave one of the slow soft silent headshakes to which she often resorted and which, mostly accompanied by the light of cheer, had somehow, in spite of the small obstinacy that smiled in them, a special grace. With this grace, for a moment, her friend, looking her up and down, appeared impressed, yet not too much so to take the next minute a decision.
Blessingbourne remained till the Wednesday following, an interval during which, as the return of fine weather was confirmed by the Sunday, the two ladies found a wider range of action. There were drives to be taken, calls made, objects of interest seen at a distance; with the effect of much easy talk and still more easy silence.
Her visitor, settled on a small sofa that, with a palm-tree, a screen, a stool, a stand, a bowl of flowers and three photographs in silver frames, had been arranged near the light wood-fire as a choice "corner" Maud Blessingbourne, her guest, turned audibly, though at intervals neither brief nor regular, the leaves of a book covered in lemon-coloured paper and not yet despoiled of a certain fresh crispness.
Blessingbourne and with an air of deference scarce supported perhaps by its sketchiness kept her deep eyes on this definition. "But sometimes we flounder out." It immediately touched in Colonel Voyt the spring of a genial derision. "That's just where I expected YOU would! One always sees it come." "He has, you notice," Mrs.
I don't think I shall tell you anything of the sort. I don't know that I even agree with your premiss." "About such relations?" He looked agreeably surprised. "You think we make them larger? or subtler?" Mrs. Blessingbourne leaned back, not looking, like Mrs. Dyott, at the fire, but at the ceiling. "I don't know what I think." "It's not that she doesn't know," Mrs. Dyott remarked.
Dyott parenthesised to Maud, "seen it come so often I; and he has always waited for it and met it." "Met it, dear lady, simply enough! It's the old story, Mrs. Blessingbourne. The relation's innocent that the heroine gets out of. The book's innocent that's the story of her getting out. But what the devil in the name of innocence was she doing IN?" Mrs. Dyott promptly echoed the question.
"Know what?" "Why anything." But the door opened too soon for Mrs. Dyott, who could only murmur quickly "Take care!" It was in fact Mrs. Blessingbourne, who had under her arm the book she had gone up for a pair of covers showing this time a pretty, a candid blue.
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