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Peggy spoke in crisp, stinging little sentences, her distress on her brother's account goading her into unusual bitterness; but she was entirely unprepared for the result of her words, stricken dumb by the sight of Rosalind's pale glance of reproach, the sudden rush of tears to the eyes. Broken words struggled for utterance, but she could only distinguish, "Unjust!
Curiosity about personal matters is ignoble. Rosalind's love for Orlando is born of pity.
She had grey eyes like Rosalind's but they were dull like the eyes of a fish lying on a slab of ice in the window of a city meat market. The daughter was a little frightened by what she saw in her mother's face and something caught in her throat. There was an embarrassing moment. A strange sort of tenseness came into the air of the room and all three people suddenly got up from the table.
We'll both be in I A the Midsummer after, and we can go in for our matic, together. I wish you'd arrange with Mrs. Jervis for both of us to be at Newnham at the same time. Tell her Rosalind's an awful slacker if I'm not there to keep her up to the mark. No don't tell her that. Tell her I'm a slacker if she isn't there. I was amused by your saying it was decent of Bartie to have us so often.
He tried to smile, but it was an unsuccessful attempt, and Peggy realised that the wound was as yet too fresh to bear handling. The time would come when Arthur would be ready to receive consolation, but now it was easy to see that depreciation of Rosalind's character only added to his distress.
"Lucy, Lucy!" she said, "do come and look at Rosalind's coral! Oh, poor Polly! you must miss your ornaments; but I am obliged frankly to confess, my dear, that they are more becoming to this little cherub than they ever were to you." Polly was loudly dressed in blue silk. She came up and turned Rosalind round, and, putting her hand on her neck, lifted the necklace and looked at it affectionately.
But this little plot died at its birth, for that very minute the threatened couple arose, and went out arm in arm, apparently as absurdly happy as two young people can be. As they passed out, one of Rosalind's fellow bar-maids turned to her and said, "You know who that was?" "Who?" said Rosalind, startled. "That pretty woman who went out with that young Johnny just now?" "No; who is she?"
They also went down along the steps and away. Down and away along the steps went others how many others, men and women, boys and girls, single old men, old women who leaned on sticks and hobbled along. In the bed in her father's house as she lay awake Rosalind's head grew light. She tried to clutch at something, understand something. She couldn't.
"I thought you didn't like it because I was careless." "I suppose it was careless, my pet, but I had not thought of it. But tell me what makes you care so much for that book. It seems to me there are many stories that would be more interesting to a little girl. Suppose you put it away and let me find you something else." The color deepened in Rosalind's face.
One would have liked to see the old man genuinely touched by the charming eloquence of Rosalind's appeal for a crust of bread, and conscious that he would probably go to heaven if he granted it, and yet not quite able to grant it.
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