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Updated: June 2, 2025
He did not kiss her. And she knew. Upstairs in the bedroom overhead, Steve and his mother moved heavily. There was a sound of drawers opening and shutting, then a grating sound. Something was being dragged from under the bed. Maggie knew that they were packing Majendie's portmanteau with the things he had left behind him. They stood together by the hearth, where the fire kindled feebly.
He loved her still, in his fashion; he must also respect her, and, in respecting her, respect goodness the highest goodness in her. Accustomed to move in a region of spiritual certainty, Anne was untroubled by any misgivings as to the soundness of her attitude. It was open to no criticism except the despicable wisdom of the world. Her chief difficulty was poor Majendie's imperishable affection.
She had become for her child that which she had been for her husband in her strange, immortal moments of surrender, a woman warmed and transfigured by a secret fire. Her new beauty remained, like a brooding charm, when the child was not with her. And as the seasons, passing, made her more and more a woman dear and desirable, Majendie's passion for her became almost insane through its frustration.
But requires no spoon to sup with her, as Miss Majendie's invitations to supper, or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare that it might be rash for a hungry man to count on them. After every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that "this one" shall be his last, and every Wednesday following he has gone again.
And over the unhallowed, half-abandoned table, flushed slightly with Majendie's good wine, the Canon drew up his chair to his host, and stretched his little legs, and let his spirit expand in a rosy, broad humanity. As he had charmed the spiritual woman he saw in Anne, so he laid himself out to flatter the natural man he saw in Majendie.
Majendie's imagination played hilariously with this fantastic, this preposterous notion of his goodness. "Oh yes, be good," said Edith, "but not too good. Above all, not too good to me. Concentrate on her, stupid." "I have concentrated," he moaned, mystified beyond endurance. "Besides, you said I couldn't make her jealous." "No, I wish you could.
Looking at her, Anne's tears grew heavy and fell. "It's your birthday," said Edith softly. And as she heard Majendie's foot on the stairs Anne dried her eyes on the birthday pocket handkerchief. "Here she is," said Edith as he entered. "What are you going to do with her? She doesn't have a birthday every day." "I'm going," he said, "to take her down to breakfast."
She was the cause of Anne's original callings in Prior Street. If it had not been for Edith, Anne could never have penetrated that secret bachelor abode. The engagement had been an awkward, unsatisfactory, sinister affair. It was a pity that Mr. Majendie's domestic circumstances were such that poor dear Anne appeared as having made all the necessary approaches and advances. If Mr.
Interested faces appeared at the windows of the house opposite. At the moment of alighting Anne was aware that the eyes of many people were upon them, and she was thankful that she had married a man whose self-possession, at any rate, she could rely on. Majendie's manner was perfect. He avoided both the bridegroom's offensive assiduity and his no less offensive affectation of indifference.
The part which she had rehearsed with such ease in her own bedroom was impossible in Mrs. Majendie's drawing-room. She was charmed by the spirit of the place, constrained by its suggestion of fair observances, high decencies, and social suavities. She could not sit there and tell Mrs. Majendie that her husband had been unfaithful to her. You do not say these things.
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