“Hoping what my kind Frances?”
“That I was to be a link; that I would find you sane again—willing to pay me a visit, and meet him.”
“But, as you see, I am on Latmos, and like it.”
“Yes, I see. I am disillusionized, Camelia; I confess it. I didn’t expect that sort of floppiness from you. And there is a self-righteousness about your whole manner that is insufferable, quite; I tell you so frankly.” Mrs. Fox-Darriel, as she spoke, shouldered her closed parasol, and clasped her hands over it in a militant antagonism of attitude. “The sheep looking suavely from its fold at the goat. We are all goats to you now.”
“Come, let us kiss through the bars, then.”
“Oh, you are miles away—æons away!”
Mrs. Fox-Darriel submitted drearily. “You are lost! done for! And the name, the power, the future you might have had! You were clever.”
“I rather doubt that.”
“Ah! of course you doubt it; you must doubt it. As the wife of a crusty country squire it would be a corroding cleverness merely. You turn your back on it.”
“We won’t be hopelessly provincial. You will see us in London. He may get into Parliament.”