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Updated: May 11, 2025
It's the right thing to do in a house when the master dies. Miss Clare's in her room. I'll let her know you've arrived." "We'll go and find her, thank you," said Lilias, walking quietly upstairs. The Ingleton children were truly grieved at the loss of the grandfather who, for so many years, had stood to them in the place of a parent. They went softly about the house and spoke in hushed voices.
The holiday in Sicily, like all pleasant things, came to an end at last, and the Ingleton family, leaving the Casa Bianca with many regrets, returned to their own country in time to welcome Roland, Bevis, and Clifford back from school for Easter.
"I am rather," said the tutor in a voice which quite satisfied his hearer. "Heigho!" said she presently, picking up the dog and stroking its ears. "I'm glad this dreadful voyage is over. Mr Armstrong, what do they all think about all of us coming to Maxfield? If I lived there, I should hate it." "Mrs Ingleton, I know, is very pleased." "Yes, but you men aren't. There'll be fearful rows, I know.
And with the words he turned on his heel and went out. "Hateful person!" cried Mrs. Ingleton. "Gilbert, he has insulted me! Go after him and kick him! Gilbert! How dare you?" Ingleton was quietly but firmly impelling her back into the boudoir. "You go and sit down!" he said. "Sit down and be quiet! There's been enough of this."
She did not know that it was solely her utter wretchedness that kept them at a distance. She entered the ballroom behind Mrs. Ingleton, and at once Preston descended upon her again. He had scrawled his name against half a dozen dances on her card before she realized what he was doing. She began to protest, but again that deadly feeling of apathy overcame her. She was worn out worn out.
She greeted him sedately the next moment, and though her face was smiling, her welcome seemed to be frozen at its source; it held no warmth. Mrs. Ingleton, tall, handsome, assertive, cast an appraising eye around the oak-panelled hall. "Dear me! What severe splendour!" she commented. "I have a great love for cosiness myself.
Please book me a seat for next year, and I'll go!" The Clytie arrived at Malta in the morning, and, as the local steamer did not start for Syracuse until midnight, the Ingleton party had the whole day at Valetta on their hands.
Soon after five the door of her boudoir was opened by a footman, and Mrs. Clarke walked slowly in, looking Lady Ingleton thought, even thinner, even more haggard and grave than usual. She was perfectly dressed in a gown that was a marvel of subtle simplicity, and wore a hat that drew just enough attention to the lovely shape of her small head.
The tutor waited a moment, and then walked quietly from the room. For a quarter of an hour he paced restlessly in the cold passage outside; then, as his pupil did not appear, he returned to the chamber of death. Roger Ingleton, as he expected, had fallen asleep where he knelt. The wretched days between the death and the funeral dragged on in the usual dismal fashion.
Instinctively as Rosamund left Father Robertson's little room she had tried to hide her face. She had received a blow, and the pain of it frightened her. She was startled by her own suffering. What did it mean? What did it portend? She had no right to feel as she did. Long ago she had abandoned the right to such a feeling. The information Lady Ingleton had brought outraged Rosamund.
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