Mrs. Hilary, herself romantically sensible, as middle-aged ladies are, of valour and high adventure, granted Grandmama David and Goliath, but still repined at the hymns and the sermon.
"Good words, my dear, good words," Grandmama said to that. For Grandmama had been brought up not to criticise sermons, but had failed to bring up Mrs. Hilary to the same self-abnegation. The trouble with Mrs. Hilary was, and had always been, that she expected (even now) too much of life. Grandmama expected only what she got. And Neville, wisest of all, had not listened, for she too expected what she would get if she did. She was really rather like Grandmama, in her cynically patient acquiescence, only brought up in a different generation, and not to hear sermons. In the gulf of years between these two, Mrs. Hilary's restless, questing passion fretted like unquiet waves.
5
"This Barry Briscoe," said Mrs. Hilary to Neville after lunch, as she watched Nan and he start off for a walk together. "I suppose he's in love with her?"
"I suppose so. Something of the kind, anyhow."
Mrs. Hilary said, discontentedly, "Another of Nan's married men, no doubt. She collects them."
"No, Barry's not married."
Mrs. Hilary looked more interested. "Not? Oh, then it may come to something.... I wish Nan would marry. It's quite time."
"Nan isn't exactly keen to, you know. She's got so much else to do."
"Fiddlesticks. You don't encourage her in such nonsense, I hope, Neville."