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Updated: June 3, 2025
Wortley, producing a silver case primed with sovereigns and slipping one coin on to the table. Then Mrs. Durrant got up and passed down the room, holding herself very straight, and the girls in yellow and blue and silver gauze followed her, and elderly Miss Eliot in her velvet; and a little rosy woman, hesitating at the door, clean, scrupulous, probably a governess.
That very afternoon Bonamy went expressly to talk about Jacob to tea with Clara Durrant in the square behind Sloane Street where, on hot spring days, there are striped blinds over the front windows, single horses pawing the macadam outside the doors, and elderly gentlemen in yellow waistcoats ringing bells and stepping in very politely when the maid demurely replies that Mrs. Durrant is at home.
"I have enjoyed myself," said Jacob, looking down the greenhouse. "Yes, it's been delightful," she said vaguely. "Oh, Miss Durrant," he said, taking the basket of grapes; but she walked past him towards the door of the greenhouse. "You're too good too good," she thought, thinking of Jacob, thinking that he must not say that he loved her. No, no, no.
"Our friend Masham," said Timmy Durrant, "would rather not be seen in our company as we are now." His buttons had come off. "D'you know Masham's aunt?" said Jacob. "Never knew he had one," said Timmy. "Masham has millions of aunts," said Jacob. "So are his aunts," said Jacob. "His sister," said Timmy, "is a very pretty girl." "That's what'll happen to you, Timmy," said Jacob.
"Miss Maria Durrant, ain't you got a calico dress you could spare, or an apron, or a pair o' rubbers, anyways? I be extra needy, now, I tell you! There; I ain't inquired for William's folks; how be they?" "All smart," said Maria, for the second time; but she happened to look up just in time to catch a strange gleam in her visitor's eyes.
When she caught sight of the empty kitchen she dropped her bundle into the nearest chair, and held up her hands in what was no affectation of an appearance of despair. One day in May, about a year from the time that Martha Haydon died, Maria Durrant was sitting by the western window of the kitchen, mending Mr.
Rather haughtily, she watched the tourists cross the field path. She came of a Highland race, famous for its chieftains. Mrs. Pascoe appeared. "I envy you that bush, Mrs. Pascoe," said Mrs. Durrant, pointing the parasol with which she had rapped on the door at the fine clump of St. John's wort that grew beside it. Mrs. Pascoe looked at the bush deprecatingly.
The dinner would never end, Jacob thought, and he did not wish it to end, though the ship had sailed from one corner of the window-frame to the other, and a light marked the end of the pier. He saw Mrs. Durrant gaze at the light. She turned to him. "Did you take command, or Timothy?" she said. "Forgive me if I call you Jacob. I've heard so much of you." Then her eyes went back to the sea.
Durrant severely, surveying the dance programme all scored with the same initials, or rather they were different ones this time R.B. instead of E.M.; Richard Bonamy it was now, the young man with the Wellington nose. "But I could never marry a man with a nose like that," said Clara. "Nonsense," said Mrs. Durrant. "But I am too severe," she thought to herself.
Jarvis wrote them; Mrs. Durrant too; Mother Stuart actually scented her pages, thereby adding a flavour which the English language fails to provide; Jacob had written in his day long letters about art, morality, and politics to young men at college. Clara Durrant's letters were those of a child. Florinda the impediment between Florinda and her pen was something impassable.
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