“Never!” said Miss Glover, with conviction, seeing a vivid picture of herself in such a position.
Miss Glover was unaltered. Time passed over her head powerlessly; she still looked anything between five-and-twenty and forty, her hair was no more washed-out, her figure in its armour of black cloth was as juvenile as ever; and not a new idea nor a thought had entered her mind. She was like Alice’s queen, who ran at the top of her speed and remained in the same place; but with Miss Glover the process was reversed: the world moved on, apparently faster and faster as the century drew near its end, but she remained fixed—an incarnation of the eighteen-eighties.
The day before the 11th arrived. The hounds were to meet at the Share and Coulter, as when Edward had been thrown. He sent for Dr. Ramsay to assure Bertha that he was quite fit; and after the examination, brought him into the drawing-room.
“Dr. Ramsay says my collar-bone is stronger than ever.”
“But I don’t think he ought to ride the roan notwithstanding. Can’t you persuade Edward not to, Bertha?”
Bertha looked from the doctor to Edward, smiling. “I’ve done my best.”
“Bertha knows better than to bother,” said Edward. “She don’t think much of me as a churchwarden, but when a horse is concerned, she does trust me; don’t you, dear?”
“I really do.”
“There,” said Edward, much pleased, “that’s what I call a good wife.”
Next day the horse was brought round and Bertha filled Edward’s flask.