Although she saw, as time went by, that no outside influence would have power to shatter the vision so clearly before the Canon’s eyes and to which he so unfalteringly directed Flora’s gaze, it brought to her a slight sense of personal relief when the Canon, after inditing a letter of his usual unbridled length and meticulous candour, informed her that he had besought Quentillian to spend at St. Gwenllian that which he emphasized as Flora’s last evening at home.
“It will make it easier for us all, to have that dearest of dear fellows amongst us. He is so truly one of ourselves, and yet the mere presence of someone who does not always form part of our familiar little circle, will prevent overmuch dwelling upon the tender associations of the past that are well-nigh beyond bearing, at such a time as this.”
Owen, laconic as Lucilla herself, made no attempt to conceal either his personal dislike of the solution to Flora’s problem, or his innate conviction of her complete right to any form of self-slaughter that she might select.
They exchanged no opinions, but he found occasion to say to her in private:
“One thing, Flora. Will you leave me to deal with the Mrs. Carey equation, if it ever comes to be necessary?”
“I hope it never will.”
“So do I. But make it your legacy to me, so that if ever it has to be thought of again, I may do as seems best to me.”
Flora smiled, her shadowy, tremulous smile.
“Wouldn’t you do that anyway?”