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Everybody was delighted; Aunt Euphrasia dropped her book, and made her way out of her corner; Desire and Mr. Kirkbright handled and exclaimed; Mrs. Argenter opened her eyes, and held out her fingers toward them with a smile. "Such a quantity for everybody!" said Sylvie, as he put them into her lap, and she began to shake out the bunches. "How kind you were, Mr. Sherrett!
It was the presence among them that was wanted; and poor Sylvie seemed to herself to melt quite away, as it were, before such a girl as Amy Sherrett, and not to be able to be a presence at all. It was all right now, as Sylvie had said. They could not leave immediately upon Mrs. Argenter joining them and her joining them was of itself a welcome and an invitation.
These things are happening every day, and one great story holds us all. If one could see wide enough, one could tell the whole. These things happen: and then the question comes, alike in high and low places, alike with money and without it, what the women and the girls are to do? Rodney Sherrett took his sister home; drove three miles round and brought Mrs.
Rod Sherrett and Sylvie Argenter had danced together at the Roxeter Assemblies, and the little Dorbury "Germans;" they had boated, and picknicked, and skated in company, but to be tumbled together into a baker's shop, torn and frightened, and dusty, each feeling, also, in a great scrape, this was an odd and startling partnership.
"It is really unpardonable," Amy Sherrett was saying, and picking up the pretty little hat which she had thrown down upon a chair, "it had been so warm to wear anything a minute that one need not." And then Mrs.
Sherrett must come into the conservatory, where a few ragged palm ferns, their great leaves browning and crumbling at the edges, some daphnes struggling into green tips, having lost their last growth of leaf and dropped all their flower buds, and several calmly enduring orange and lemon trees, gave all the suggestion of foliage that the place afforded, and served, much like the painter's inscription at the bottom of his canvas merely to signify by the scant glimpse through the drawing-room draperies, "This is a conservatory."
But there's a kind of a little misgiving somehow, when they come, or when I go, as if well, as if there might be something to it that I didn't know of, or behind it that I hadn't got; or else, that there were things that they had nothing to do with that I know too much of. A kind of a Poggowantimoc feeling, mother! Amy Sherrett is so fearfully refined, all the way through!
She had hardly known, any more than her mother, how much the countenance and friendliness of the Sherrett family had done in upholding her. It was a link with the old things the very best of the old things, that stood as a continual assurance that they themselves were not altered lowered in any way by their alterings. This came to Sylvie with an interior confirmation, as it did to Mrs.
The house with the corner piazza and the green side yard, and the dark red roof sloping down, just off the road in the shady turn beside the bank that only leads to two other little houses beyond. Do you know?" Mr. Sherrett did know. They were three houses built by members of the same family, some years ago, upon an old village homestead property.
It would give me a very mean feeling. It would be like trying to get a bite of everybody's bread and butter. I'd rather have my own little loaf." "You are a brave, true little woman," said Mr. Sherrett, warmly. "All you want is to be set in the right direction, and see your way. You'll be sure to go on." "I think I should. If mother can only be contented. I think I should rather like it.
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