'But she isn't Mrs Raymond any more. You surely don't imagine that he flirts with his aunt?'
'Of course not—how absurd you are! That's a ridiculous way to put it.
No—he won't even see her.'
'Is that what you complain of?'
'His avoiding her shows he still thinks of her. It's a bad sign—isn't it? What I feel is, that he still puts her on a pedestal.'
'Well, that's all right. Let her stay there. Now, Hyacinth, when people know what they want—really want something acutely and definitely—and don't get it, I can pity them. They're frustrated—scored off by fate, as it were; and even if it's good for them, I'm sorry. But when they have got what they wanted, and then find fault and are not satisfied, I can't give them any sympathy at all. Who was it said there is no tragedy like not getting your wish—except getting it? You wanted Cecil Reeve. You've got him. How would you have felt if the other woman had got him instead?'
'You're right, Anne—I suppose. And yet—do you think he'll ever quite forget her?'
'Do you think, if you really tried hard, you could manage to find out what your grievance is, Hyacinth?'
'Yes.'
'Well, then, try; and when you've found it, just keep it. Don't part with it. A sentimental grievance is a resource—it's a consolation for all the prosaic miseries of life. Now I must go, or I shall be late for high tea.'