“Yes, it ’s all—­but it will bear a good deal of thinking of.”

Felix went with him to the garden-gate, and watched him slowly walk away into the thickening twilight with a relaxed rigidity that tried to rectify itself.  “He is offended, excited, bewildered, perplexed—­and enchanted!” Felix said to himself.  “That ’s a capital mixture.”

CHAPTER XI

Since that visit paid by the Baroness Munster to Mrs. Acton, of which some account was given at an earlier stage of this narrative, the intercourse between these two ladies had been neither frequent nor intimate.  It was not that Mrs. Acton had failed to appreciate Madame M; auunster’s charms; on the contrary, her perception of the graces of manner and conversation of her brilliant visitor had been only too acute.  Mrs. Acton was, as they said in Boston, very “intense,” and her impressions were apt to be too many for her.  The state of her health required the restriction of emotion; and this is why, receiving, as she sat in her eternal arm-chair, very few visitors, even of the soberest local type, she had been obliged to limit the number of her interviews with a lady whose costume and manner recalled to her imagination—­Mrs. Acton’s imagination was a marvel—­all that she had ever read of the most stirring historical periods.  But she had sent the Baroness a great many quaintly-worded messages and a great many nosegays from her garden and baskets of beautiful fruit.  Felix had eaten the fruit, and the Baroness had arranged the flowers and returned the baskets and the messages.  On the day that followed that rainy Sunday of which mention has been made, Eugenia determined to go and pay the beneficent invalid a “visite d’adieux;” so it was that, to herself, she qualified her enterprise.  It may be noted that neither on the Sunday evening nor on the Monday morning had she received that expected visit from Robert Acton.  To his own consciousness, evidently he was “keeping away;” and as the Baroness, on her side, was keeping away from her uncle’s, whither, for several days, Felix had been the unembarrassed bearer of apologies and regrets for absence, chance had not taken the cards from the hands of design.  Mr. Wentworth and his daughters had respected Eugenia’s seclusion; certain intervals of mysterious retirement appeared to them, vaguely, a natural part of the graceful, rhythmic movement of so remarkable a life.  Gertrude especially held these periods in honor; she wondered what Madame M; auunster did at such times, but she would not have permitted herself to inquire too curiously.