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Updated: May 8, 2025
She had been so proud of her garden always. But for her it had bloomed for the last time. Would the James Wickhams take as much pride in it? Somehow, she fancied not. And she? Where would she be a year from now? A year! Where would she be in another month? The whole world, in a modest sense, would he hers to choose from.
Now that it was written, she had almost a superstitions feeling that it was important that it should catch the first foreign mail. As she passed the door of the drawing-room, she could hear James Wickham's voice raised above its normal pitch. Were they already quarreling over the spoils! Nora's surmise had been very nearly correct; the Wickhams were quarreling, but not, as yet, over the spoils.
"Dorothy!" in a tone of remonstrance. "Would you care for some tea, Mrs. Wickham?" Nora broke in. To her the whole scene was positively indecent. She longed to make her escape, but felt that it would be considered part of her duty to remain as long as the Wickhams stayed. As she was about to ring the bell, Mrs. Wickham stopped her with a gesture.
And then, it was so difficult to keep up a correspondence when people had no mutual friends and so little in common. A glance at her watch told her that it must be nearly time for the London Wickhams to arrive. It would be better not to see them, unless they sent for her, until after they had returned from the cemetery.
And, later, we can have a cozy little tea all by ourselves." "Very well. Oh, my dear," said Miss Pringle with emotion, "I'm so sincerely happy in your good luck!" Nora was genuinely moved. She leaned over and kissed Miss Pringle, her eyes filling with quick tears. Then she went into the house. The Wickhams were already in the drawing-room. Mrs.
Two days later, in the late afternoon, she found herself in the train for London, the second journey she had taken in ten years. Once, three years before, Miss Wickham had been persuaded to go up and pay the James Wickhams a short visit and had taken Nora with her. It could hardly have been described as a pleasure trip.
He was a freckled youth of a most horsey get up, in clothes so tight that it seemed a marvel how he could ever sit down, and a straw in his mouth which appeared to grow there. Close on his heels came the two Wickhams, whose chief attractiveness seemed to be that they were twins, and as like as two peas. "Hullo! here you are," was Doubleday's greeting. "Which is which of you to-night, eh?"
She stood, her hands resting on the table, her eyes fastened on the long blue envelope which Mr. Wynne had forgotten. From a long way off she heard the wheels of the cab on the driveway. "I thought they were never going. Well?" It was Miss Pringle who had come in from her retreat in the garden, eager to hear the news the moment she had seen the Wickhams driving away.
"Oh, the usual lot," said Doubleday, with the air of a man who gives "feeds" every day of his life. "The two Wickhams, and Joe Whipcord, and the Field-Marshal, and an Irish fellow who is lodging with him. We ought to have a jolly evening." In due time the guests arrived, Mr Joseph Whipcord being the earliest.
She had no news for her. She hoped Mr. Wynne would not be delayed much longer. The Wickhams could not possibly be more anxious to get back to London than she was to have them go. How gratuitously insolent that woman was. Thank Heaven, she need never see her again after to-day. Of course, she was furious because she suspected that the despised companion was to be a beneficiary under the will.
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