He told himself so again, with a faint sense of surprise that already it should rank as an episode merely.
There had been no calamity, and, as Edna had said, nothing had been put into words.
He revised the collection of infinitesimal ripples that had momentarily disturbed the atmosphere common to the little groups of people with whom he was concerned.
Almost each one had contributed vibrations in a greater or lesser degree.
Miss Farmer, Miss Sandiloe, young Cooper—each and all of them had tittered a little, wondered a little, talked foolishly.
Auntie Iris—for the life of him, Julian could not feel as angry with pretty, ridiculous Iris as he thought that her folly deserved—Iris, too, had played out her little comedies, her childish attempts at directing the hand of fate.
Old Alderman Bellew—Julian gave only an instant's half-amused recollection to the dogmatic condemnations and assertions of old Alderman Bellew. He had merely found it easy to follow the lead given him, after all.
On the thought of Edna's many activities Sir Julian dwelt not at all. Somewhere at the back of his mind lingered the echo of her specious gospel, her creed of "giving out."
For himself, he preferred to think that the trend of events had been in no way deflected by all that Edna had done and said.
The whole had been fated to remain an episode, devoid of climax.