“Ah, well,” sighed Mrs Ingram softly, “there’s an instinct that is truer than sight!”
Her husband pressed her hand, but did not answer. He knew well that his wife possessed a wonderful heart-vision which could pierce beneath the deceptions of surface appearance, down to the truth beneath; but this was a plane to which he could not follow; and in truth he could not trust himself to discuss it. This dearly loved wife had always been of an unusual exalted character, and with the decline of bodily health, she seemed to cast from her one by one the hindering frailties of the flesh, and to become ever more spiritual and crystalline. He reverenced, he worshipped, but—he feared! A spirit so fine seemed out of place on this gross earth.
But, thank God! the old gaiety was not dead, and her laugh rang clear as ever as a few minutes later he brought a writing-table to her side, and they embarked upon the work of tracing old friends under new conditions.
Mr Ingram would have been hard put to it to remember the names alone of all who had been present on the historic occasion, but his wife’s diary supplied an account not only of these, but of manners and appearance, with a surprisingly verbatim record of what each person had said. She had the memory which records words, and now as she read over one pronouncement after another, something of her own keenness entered into her husband’s manner.
“By jove, you have a memory! It all comes back as I hear you reading—the very words—the very expressions. I can see Claudia sitting in that chair, telling us about the rich cousin who sent her cast-off clothes, and looking so wonderfully pretty and sparkling. Ah, poor Claudia! Well—one is bound to come up against tragedy, if one follows the happenings of nine lives for fifteen years. All things considered, I think we have less of it than might have been expected. Who comes next on the list? Norah Boyce, eh? We shan’t have Norah, since that clever husband of hers has got this appointment in Canada; but we know at least that things go well with her. Nice little Norah! She deserved her good luck. And then comes Lilith Wastneys. No need to look up her address, eh? Care of the Rt. Hon. Hereward Lowther, would reach her the world over. And John Harely Malham! These friends of yours have developed into very great personages, dear! Do you think they will care to accept invitations from simple country dwellers like ourselves?”
“I shall send them invitations, and I think they will come,” Mrs Ingram said quietly. People had a way of doing what she wished, which seemed the more extraordinary as she never argued nor persuaded. “Those two are our only notables; the others are leading quite ordinary lives, so ordinary that we shall have to resort to the directory to trace one or two. I have not heard of Francis Manning for years.”
“Manning, Manning! Which was Manning? The man who was in such a dickens of a hurry to get himself into trouble?”
“No, that was Val Lessing. Val is quite a prosperous City man now. He sends me a Christmas card every year. Francis Manning was the big, lazy creature who couldn’t think of anything he wanted so much as to be let alone, to jog along in comfort. I have heard nothing of him since he wrote years ago to tell me of his marriage. I sent him a present.”
“I’ll bet you did!” commented her husband, laughing. “Oh, well, we can easily track Mr Manning. Then there comes Juliet! There’s no difficulty about Juliet. Let me see! What was it that Juliet wished for?”
“Adventure!” Mrs Ingram said, and they both smiled.