"Precocious geniuses, Mrs. Somervilles in the bud, who matured into two of the most commonplace women I know, and almost as ignorant as Susan Amphlett," said Claude.
"But you must not give me so much of your time, Claude," she said gently.
"I love to be with you; but I may slip away for the Cambridgeshire?" he said, the trivial side of his character coming to the surface.
She did not even ask if he were personally interested in the race. There had been a time when she knew every horse he owned, and made most of them her friends, rejoicing in their beauty as creatures whom she would have liked to keep for pets, rather than to expose them to the ordeal of the turf; albeit she had followed their fortunes, and speculated upon their chances, almost as keenly interested as her husband. But now they had become things without shape or meaning, like all the rest of the outside world.
"You need not be afraid of leaving me," she said. "I have this good friend to keep me company," smoothing Boroo's rough coat with her soft hand.
"I wish my mother were still in town. She would come to you every day."
"She is very good, but she and I have never been really friends. I know she would be kind; but she would talk of painful things. I don't want to remember. I want to look forward."
"Yes," he answered in a low voice, bending over her, and pressing his lips on the pale brow. "There must be no looking back."
It was the first time he had kissed her since the night of the concert. She looked up at him with a sad, sweet smile, and held his hand in hers for a moment.