‘I shall conclude next that you write poetry about him—a man who has never spoken to you, and who doesn’t recognise you when he sees you. And as for that tall girl, with her streams of yellow hair, she ought in decency to put it up, in——’
‘In a chignon—do say a chignon at once! It would suit her so admirably—about as well as it would suit Venus or Hebe.’
‘We shall never agree about them, that is evident.’
‘Well, I know that. Do let me admire them in peace. ’Tis all I ask.’
The causes of this deplorable breach of good understanding between two generally loving sisters, were now too near for them to exchange any further remarks about them at present. Lucy indignantly stuck her parasol between herself and them, and studied her Tauchnitz volume in moody dignity. Dora, perfectly conscious that the Wellfields were unaware of her existence, had no scruple in raising her head as they went past, and looking at them openly and scrutinisingly. They did not see her, being absorbed in conversation, and looking intently at one another. Avice was hanging upon her brother’s arm, which she had taken as they left the hotel, and was gazing with a sort of rapt attention into his face, as if something in his looks or his voice attracted her irresistibly. He had been saying something, and had ceased to speak, and this something seemed to give her matter for thought. Soon after they had passed the two girls, Avice said:
‘Jerome, since I knew you—how long is it?’
‘It is just a month since I came to you here.’
‘It seems an eternity of pleasure. My life has changed so much since then that I hardly know myself.’
‘For the better, do you mean?’ he asked, looking down upon the delicately beautiful, upturned face, and feeling that Sara Ford’s words had been true: ‘She will some day be remarkably beautiful.’
‘For the better, of course. I used to be very tired of my life sometimes. Often I have sat in our balcony, when we had one at any hotel we were staying at, and envied the ragged children playing in the street.’