[XIII]
IN WHICH THE POET PLUCKS A FOXGLOVE
Madge sat by the window, swinging disconsolate legs and struggling, with a nauseated heart, to master those Latin prepositions which govern the ablative case. A more degraded army she had never encountered, and though some misguided sage had committed them to rhyme, this device merely added a flavour of hypocrisy to their obvious malevolence. Moreover, the whole universe appeared to be so disgustingly cheerful that the contrast was well nigh unbearable.
Beyond the open window the day was young and bright, and the honey bees sang briskly over the lawn.
Even the gardener, most dismal of men, was humming: "A few more years shall roll," a sure sign of unwonted buoyancy of spirit. Miss Gerald was writing some letters for Lady Chantrey in another room, and Madge was alone in the study.
Thus, every factor combined to make temptation almost irresistible.
And, naturally enough, it came, and in the guise of a well-known, long-agreed-on whistle.