The two unwilling companions set forth, each in her own comer of the carriage, Emma leaning back, her thick blue veil hiding her face; Theodora, who always repudiated veils, sitting upright, her face turned, so as to catch the breeze on her hot temples, wishing she could turn herself into Violet, and possess her power of sweet persuasion and consolation. She could think of nothing to say, and began at last to fear that her silence might appear unkind. She tried to interest Emma by speaking of Johnnie, but she only obtained brief replies, and the conversation had dropped before they left the streets and entered on suburban scenery. Theodora exclaimed at a gorgeous Virginian creeper—
‘Almost as fine as the one at the Priory,’ said she.
Emma looked and sighed.
‘Rickworth must be in high glory. I know nothing prettier than the many-coloured woods sloping into the meadow, with the soft mist rising. You will find home beautiful.’
‘I cannot bear the thought of it,’ said Emma, in an under-tone.
‘How glad your little orphans will be! How many have you?’
‘There are five.’
Theodora saw she hated the subject, but thought it good for her, and went on to tell her of a case at Whitford, cramming the subject into her ear at first against the stomach of her sense, but it could not but exact attention, a widow sinking in a decline after sorrows which, by comparison, made all young lady troubles shrink into atoms. Emma became interested, and began to ask questions.
‘You will go to see the mother? Poor thing, I hope she may be alive to hear of the prospect for her child. I am sorry to be unable to go and see her, and should be so glad to know you near and able to attend to her.’
‘We will write to the housekeeper,’ said Emma.