“... large in time,
And that which shapes it to some end.”
As soon as she had arrived at this decision she threw off her moodiness and became bright again, to the great joy of Mrs. Blather, who was sighing for her to join in such Easter dissipations as Durdleham society offered. In obedience to her sister, therefore, Clytie burst upon Durdleham like a revelation. During her girlhood Durdleham had regarded her as odd, refused to accept her as conducive to social amenities. Now it worshipped her with dazzled eyes—the whirligig of time thus bringing in its revenges. The irony of the position amused her, but at the same time it brought out in her much that was good and whole-hearted. She saw, perhaps for the first time, that much of the decorous dulness that had once chafed her to frenzy proceeded from an almost childlike ignorance of the possibilities of enjoyment. For a wild moment the idea entered her head to convert Durdleham to epicureanism. Janet, to whom she confided this visionary scheme, stared at her open-mouthed, and Clytie burst out into genuine mirth. Durdleham was willing to be amused, eager to be brightened by a brilliant woman; but it would not be convinced. It held by its principles, would not yield an iota in a single formula. Still it could be brought to treat a paradox as a joke instead of brooding over it with the stolidity of a hen sitting on a china nest-egg. And that much Clytie did accomplish during the short season of her social triumph.
In the middle of April she was requested by Thornton to return to London. He had thrown up the private-secretaryship, as his purpose in accepting it had been already served. By dint of self-assertion he had identified himself with the non-parliamentary chiefs of the Tory party, and during the early spring had rendered efficient electioneering services. His chance of a candidature was therefore only a question of time. But as he wished to neglect no means of keeping himself in evidence, he still felt bound to call upon his wife to aid him socially—that is to say, to preside at his table and receive his guests. This Clytie was not disinclined to do, especially as his summons was couched in pleasant and courteous terms. So she bade farewell to Durdleham and returned to London.
When her train arrived at Euston she was surprised at seeing Thornton on the platform. He wore a gray frock-coat with a dark rose in the buttonhole, and lavender kid gloves. He came forward and greeted her, raising his hat before he shook hands.
“Have you had a tiring journey? You are looking very well. As I was paying a call near Primrose Hill,—ghastly place to live in, isn't it?—I thought I might as well pick you up here with the brougham.”
“That was very kind of you, Thornton,” she said.
They talked of indifferent subjects during the long drive to South Kensington: the theatres, odds and ends of gossip. When they got home he accompanied her into the drawing-room and drank a cup of tea.
“You're a deuced lovely woman, you know, Clytie,” he said, his great bulk sprawling over a small drawing-room chair, his hands in his pockets. “I have half a mind to fall in love with you again. If you had not turned into absolute ice, perhaps I should. You've got that same devilish witchery in your skin that made me go wild over you a year ago.”
“Oh, please don't talk of that, Thornton. It is the past,” she said, with a tremor.