‘Have you an idea, in reading Nesta’s letter?’

’Seems indifferent?—­mere trick to hide the blushes.  And I, too, I’m interested in Delphica.  Delphica and Falarique will be fine stage business.  Of course, Dr. Bouthoin and his curate!—­we know what Old England has to expect from Colney.’

’At any rate, Mr. Durance hurts no one.  You will, in your letter, appoint the day of the interview?’

’Hurts himself!  Yes, dearest; appoint for—­ten days homeward—­eleventh day from to-day.  And you to Fredi:  a bit of description—­as you can, my Nataly!  Happy to be a dolomite, to be painted by Nataly’s pen.’

The sign is evil, when we have a vexatious ringing in the ear of some small piece of familiar domestic chatter, and subject it to scrutiny, hang on it, worry and magnify it.  What will not creatures under sway of the sensational life, catch at to emphasize and strengthen distaste, until distaste shall have a semblance of reason, in the period of the mind’s awakening to revolt!  Nataly shrank from the name of dolomite, detested the name, though the scenes regained their beauty or something of it beneath her showery vision.  Every time Victor spoke of dolomites on the journey homeward, she had at heart an accusation of her cowardice, her duplicity, frailty, treachery to the highest of her worship and sole support of her endurance in the world:  not much blaming him:  but the degrading view of herself sank them both.  On a shifty soil, down goes the idol.  For him she could plead still, for herself she could not.

The smell of the Channel brine inspirited her sufficiently to cast off the fit and make it seem, in the main, a bodily depression; owing to causes, of which she was beginning to have an apprehensive knowledge:  and they were not so fearful to her as the gloom they displaced.

CHAPTER XXV

NATALY IN ACTION

A ticket of herald newspapers told the world of Victor’s returning to his London.  Pretty Mrs. Blathenoy was Nataly’s first afternoon visitor, and was graciously received; no sign of inquiry for the cause of the lady’s alacrity to greet her being shown.  Colney Durance came in, bringing the rumour of an Australian cantatrice to kindle Europe; Mr. Peridon, a seeker of tidings from the city of Bourges; Miss Priscilla Graves, reporting of Skepsey, in a holiday Sunday tone, that his alcoholic partner might at any moment release him; Mr. Septimus Barmby, with a hanged heavy look, suggestive of a wharfside crane swinging the ponderous thing he had to say.  ‘I have seen Miss Radnor.’

‘She was well?’ the mother asked, and the grand basso pitched forth an affirmative.

‘Dear sweet girl she is!’ Mrs. Blathenoy exclaimed to Colney.

He bowed.  ’Very sweet.  And can let fly on you, like a haggis, for a scratch.’

She laughed, glad of an escape from the conversational formalities imposed on her by this Mrs. Victor Radnor’s mighty manner.  ’But what girl worth anything! . . .