Truth had once again returned to the bottom of her well. Felicity’s somewhat buxom charms had never struck Bonnybell as of so overpowering a character either in the present or the past. But if ever there was a pardonable fiction it lay in her acquiescence in his flights of remorseful fancy.
For another half-hour he went on piling up encomiums, some partially merited, some grossly undeserved, upon his departed wife, and heightening the whiteness of her portrait by additional strokes of lampblack added to his own, until at last he stopped, exhausted, there being no more glory left in memory or imagination to pile upon her, nor any further disgrace with which to daub himself. But the exercise had done him good.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Felicity’s obsequies had been celebrated with due pomp, and—fate still continuing in her ironic vein—Lady Bletchley’s first visit to the most imposing of her new country houses—there were half a dozen of them—was made under circumstances which precluded all enjoyment of its beauties.
As Miss Ransome noted the throng of delegates and journalists who crowded round Felicity’s grave, and glanced at the inscriptions on gigantic wreaths sent by societies and institutions, she repeated to herself with less of cynicism than sincere compassion, “Poor thing, how she would have enjoyed it!”
And now the mourners were back again in Hill Street, and feeling the dull relief that ensues after an ended ordeal.
Edward, who had been with the widower, had just received and obeyed a summons to Camilla. He found her lying on the sofa in her dressing-room. She was doing it thoroughly, as she did everything; that is to say, she lay perfectly flat, with her head resting on a cushion; but her attitude managed to express a protest which proclaimed that its adoption was due solely to doctor’s orders, and as little as possible to any inclination towards self-indulgence.
“How is he now?”
“Oh, he’ll be all right.”
“Is he calmer?”