“It is so foolish of me, Edmund,” Virginia rambled on, addressing him with a familiarity she had never yet used. “When I am away from home I forget all about my meals—really forget—and then all at once I find that I am quite exhausted—quite exhausted—as you see. And the worst of it is I have altogether lost my appetite by the time I get back. I couldn’t eat a mouthful of food—not a mouthful—I assure you I couldn’t. And it does so distress good Mrs. Conisbee. She is exceedingly kind to me—exceedingly careful about my health. Oh, and in Battersea Park Road I saw such a shocking sight; a great cart ran over a poor little dog, and it was killed on the spot. It unnerved me dreadfully. I do think, Edmund, those drivers ought to be more careful. I was saying to Mrs. Conisbee only the other day—and that reminds me, I do so want to know all about your visit to Clevedon. Dear, dear Clevedon! And have you really taken a house there, Edmund? Oh, if we could all end our days at Clevedon! You know that our dear father and mother are buried in the old churchyard. You remember Tennyson’s lines about the old church at Clevedon? Oh, and what did Monica decide about—about—really, what was I going to ask? It is so foolish of me to forget that dinner-time has come and gone. I get so exhausted, and even my memory fails me.”
He could doubt no longer. This poor woman had yielded to one of the temptations that beset a life of idleness and solitude. His pity was mingled with disgust.
“I only wished to tell you,” he said gravely, “that we have taken a house at Clevedon—”
“You really have!” She clasped her hands together. “Whereabouts?”
“Near Dial Hill.”
Virginia began a rhapsody which her brother-in-law had no inclination to hear. He rose abruptly.
“Perhaps you had better come and see us to-morrow.”
“But Monica left a message that she wouldn’t be at home for the next few days, and that I wasn’t to come till I heard from her.”
“Not at home—? I think there’s a mistake.”
“Oh, impossible! We’ll ask Mrs. Conisbee.”