Mrs. Hancock beamed approval.
"We had a nice talk," she said, "and I should not wonder if we saw Mr. Martin playing golf. In any case you will see him—oh, what a jolt! That must have been something big on the road. Do you think we might have your window a little more down, dear? I want you to profit by this lovely air. Yes, just like that. I wonder how I shall tell Mrs. Williams and Edith and them all about it. I shall feel so nervous. Perhaps I had better leave it to Mr. Martin. What do you think? Yes, if you look out of this window you will see him there. That is he hitting away with his golf-stick at that furze-bush. How vigorous, is he not? Oh, did you see his ball fly away then? He plays so beautifully! Indeed, dear, I feel such old friends with you, too, and to think that—there, he is talking to his partner. Now they are quite out of sight."
Mrs. Fanshawe could not at once decline from the high standard of sympathy and comprehension she had set last night.
"And I only just caught a glimpse of him!" she said. "I shall have to curb my impatience till I meet him at your house. But I warn you, my dear, I shall be very critical of the man who is going to take care of you. He will have to think about you much more than you ever think about yourself."
Mrs. Hancock shook her head.
"No, quite the other way round, dear," she said. "I shall have to take care of him. He wears himself out with work. I have no doubt that after his game to-day—he plays golf really entirely for the sake of the influence it gives him over the young men here, and he introduces a spirit of earnestness among the caddies—are they not called, who carry the sticks?—after his game, I dare say he will go straight to his study and finish up his sermon. There is the Great Western Railway. Look! What a long luggage-train! I wonder what it contains. Perhaps the new lawn-tennis net which I ordered from the stores yesterday. I know that when I have charge of Mr. Martin I shall not let him wear himself out so. He ought to have a curate, for instance. I wonder how much a good curate costs."
Mrs. Fanshawe had no data on which to base this calculation, and Mrs. Hancock allowed the conversation to veer a little in her direction.
"You are getting quite a colour in your cheeks, dear, already," she said, "with our good air. You must come here often and have plenty of it. I can't tell you how often I have meant to ask you here with dear Elizabeth, but I was determined to get everything straight first after my long absence so that you would be quite comfortable. And how often my heart has bled for you in your loneliness! I remember so well after my dear husband died I thought I should never enjoy anything any more. Even now sometimes I should feel dreadfully depressed if I allowed myself to. But I have always told myself what great causes I have for thankfulness. Mr. Martin——"
Mrs. Fanshawe broke in, feeling that there was a limit at which sympathy passes into drivel and comprehension into idiotic acquiescence. Besides, it was only fair that she should have some sort of an innings.
"I feel so much all that you say, dear," she said, "especially about causes for thankfulness. I am sure they are showered on me. And Bob was always so anxious and thoughtful for my happiness that I should feel that I should be failing in my duty to him if I lost any opportunity of securing it."