Needless to say, the Doña was not in the least taken in—she did not take it for a sign of Grace, nor did it seem to her in the least touching; but she knew it would strike Jollypot as being both, and the picture she foresaw that the incident would produce on her—that of the innocent little pagan calling aloud to God for the spiritual food that was his birthright—was one that the Doña felt would be both soothing, and expressive of the way in which she would have liked the incident to have appeared to herself.
A perfect household of slaves would include a sentimentalist and a cynic by means of whom the lord, whatever his own temperament, could express vicariously whatever interpretation of events was the one that harmonised with his plans or mood of the moment.
It was as she expected; Jollypot’s eyes filled with tears, and she murmured, “Poor little man! poor little man!”
And she was long haunted by the starving cry of the innocent, “I want that bread! I want that bread!”
6
The walkers set out in the direction of the view, strolling in a bunch down the grass path between the border.
“You know, I don’t really like these herbaceous things—they aren’t tame. I like flowers you can make a pet of, roses and violets and that sort of thing,” said Rory, looking towards Teresa.
She did not meet his eye, feeling in no mood to feed his vanity by sympathising with his fancies.
From the village to their right rang out the chimes for evensong.