"I'd far rather be like you, with all your liberty, Aunt Elizabeth. For, after all, though one does hear of happy marriages"—she paused—"they're rather rare, aren't they? And if one marries for love ... it's that—or nothing!" Her face was grave. "How can one tell it's going to last?"
For once her Aunt found no reply.
So the mornings would pass away in work and argument, strangely happy, followed by long afternoons in the open air with McTaggart.
Jill looked the picture of health, with sunburnt cheeks and healthy nerves.
For the summer had triumphed over the rain and a long spell of drought succeeded.
London was clearing fast of its smart crowd, and the streets and parks seemed to draw a breath of relief, freed from the daily whirl. Few people lingered in town, save the workers, and, here and there, a scattered fragment of society detained by some passing need.
Among the bright birds of passage was Lady Leason. McTaggart met her one July morning coming briskly forth from her tailor's.
"Well—this is nice!" He stopped and shook hands. "I thought you and Dick had gone to Cowes?"
"No—I'm a lone widow"—she smiled. "I'm off next week to join him in Scotland. I've been trying on some shooting clothes"—she produced a pattern—"How d'you like it?"
"Heather mixture—nice stuff," he fingered it with approval. "It's simply ages since I've seen you—I've only been back a little time and meant to call, but heard you had gone. Shall you be at home next Sunday?"