“My poor pet.”
“She’s hors de combat: free from a calculating and dishonest world; ah, Canon!”
“We shall expect you, then, dear Sally’s friend, to dinner this evening at eight,” Canon Sinquier murmured as he walked away.
Mrs. Sixsmith put up a large chiffon sunshade and hovered staccato before the dwindling spires and ogee dome of S. Irene.
It was one of the finest days imaginable. The sun shone triumphantly in the midst of a cloudless sky.
She would loiter awhile among the bougainvilleas and dark, spreading laurels of the Cathedral green, trespassing obtusely now and then into quiet gardens, through tall wrought-iron gates.
New visions and possibilities rare rose in her mind.
With Sally still, she could do a lot. Through her she would be received with honours, into the courtly circles of the Close.
Those fine palatial houses, she reflected, must be full of wealth ... old Caroline plate and gorgeous green Limoges: Sally indeed had proved it! The day she had opened her heart in the Café Royal she had spoken of a massive tureen too heavy even to hold.
Mrs. Sixsmith’s eyes grew big.