“I am generally fast asleep at that time, I must confess. But even if I were awake, I should not care for it as much as for evening. And to-day it all seemed of a piece. You know it is my last evening here—and I heard you all saying good-bye to those people who have just gone, and Lady Mary’s voice sounded so silvery when she called back ‘good-night’ for the last time. Don’t you think, Maida, that there is always something pathetic, if we stopped to think about it, in farewells, even if we expect to meet again quite soon? One never can be sure that a good-bye may not be a real good-bye.”
“Yes, I have often felt that. And the real good-byes, as you call them, are so seldom known to be such. Last times are not often thought to be last times—strangely seldom, indeed.”
“And yet there must be a last time to everything,” said Philippa, “even to the most commonplace little details of life.”
They were silent for a moment or two.
Then said Miss Lermont:
“I hope you will come back to us soon again, dear; I should like you to see more of the neighbourhood and the neighbours.”
“I like what I have seen of both,” said Philippa. “Lady Mary is a dear little thing.”
“All the Bertrands are pleasant, kindly people,” Maida replied. “They are happy people, and allow that they are so. It is refreshing nowadays when so many are either peculiarly unhappy, or determined to think themselves so. By-the-by, what a very silent man that friend of Captain Bertrand’s is. Mr Gresham, I mean.”
“I scarcely spoke to him,” said Philippa, adding, with a laugh, “but he certainly scarcely spoke to me, so I have no reason for disagreeing with you.”
“Very silent people are almost worse than very talkative ones,” said Maida. “I suppose you are a very lively party at home, now, with Evelyn and the children.”