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Updated: June 28, 2025
Rhoda's first movement was to capture Miss Quincey's hand as it wildly reconnoitred for a pocket handkerchief among the pillows. "Don't worry about it," she said, "I'll speak to Miss Cursiter." Dr. Cautley, enduring a perfunctory five minutes with Mrs. Moon, could hear Miss Vivian running downstairs and the front door opening and closing upon her.
There was a little stir and flutter in the trees and a little stir and flutter in her heart, for she had caught sight of Dr. Cautley in the distance. He was coming round the corner of one of the intersecting walks, coming at a frantic pace, with the tails of his frock-coat waving in the wind. He pulled himself up as he neared her and held out a friendly hand. "That's right, Miss Quincey.
She offended less by violent contact and rebound than by drifting absently into the processions and getting mixed up with them. Rhoda saw a change in her; Rhoda was never too busy to spare a thought for Miss Quincey. "Yes," she said, "you are better. Your eyes are brighter." "That," said Miss Quincey, with simple pride "is the arsenic. Dr. Cautley is giving me arsenic."
Cautley was coming back for another slice of Juliana's wedding-cake. Mrs. Moon referred to a certain abominable piece of confectionery now crumbling away on a shelf in the sideboard, where, with a breach in its side and its sugar turret in ruins, it seemed to nod at Miss Quincey with all sorts of satirical suggestions.
But for the gods she might just as well have lived in a nunnery, for whenever Miss Quincey thought of a man she thought of something like Louisa's husband, Andrew Mackinnon, who spoke with a strong Scotch accent, and wore flannel shirts with celluloid collars, and coats that hung about him all anyhow. But Dr. Cautley was not in the least like Andrew Mackinnon.
Cautley deified life; and in his creed, which was simplicity itself, life and health were one; health the sole source of strength, intelligence and beauty, of all divine and perfect possibilities. At least that was how he began. But three years' practice in London had somewhat strained the faith of the young devotee.
Spirals of thin grey hair stuck flat to her forehead; she wore other and similar spirals enclosed behind glass in an enormous brooch; it was the hair of her ancestors, that is to say of the Quinceys. As the Old Lady looked at Cautley her little black eyes burned like pinpoints pierced in a paste-board mask.
Bastian Cautley was right. You may go on building as high as you please, but you will never alter the original ground-plan of human nature. And how she had scoffed at his "man's view"; how indignantly she had repulsed his suggestion that there was a side to the subject that her friends the idealists were much too ideal to see.
The chorus limped to its end and the student left the coach to some curious reflections. "Eros anikate machan!" "Oh Love, unconquered in fight!" It sang in her ears persistently, joyously, ironically a wedding-song, a battle-song, a song of victory. Bastian Cautley was right when he said that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong.
Moon, and they seemed to be saying to each other, "How flighty Miss Juliana is getting." Flighty? The idea afflicted her to such a degree that when Dr. Cautley came she had not a word to say to him. For a whole week she had looked forward to this tea-drinking with tremors of joyous expectancy and palpitations of alarm.
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