They went along the muddy road in silence.
It was from no sense that it was necessary to break it, that Quentillian spoke again at last.
“Will Lucilla come back to England at once?”
“I don’t think so. She promised to stay till the spring. You know Val has another little boy? I wish we could see them, but Father will never really be happy about Val, I’m afraid. He forgave her, long ago, but he doesn’t forget things, ever, I don’t think.”
“I don’t consider that the Canon had anything to forgive,” said Quentillian in tones of finality.
“But he does.”
If Quentillian had expected a certain meed of recognition for the magnanimity of his point of view, he was not destined to be gratified. Flora spoke rather as one giving utterance to an obvious platitude.
“Is Val happy?”
“Very. She has exactly what she always really wanted. Sometimes they have a servant, but most of the time she does everything herself, and has occasional help. She is so happy with the two little boys, too, all her letters are about them, and about the house, and all they’re doing to improve it. She’s got the life that she was really meant for, and after all, isn’t that what makes happiness?”
“I suppose it is. She was meant for the primitive things, you think?”