Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her stay in Durdleham, making light, in her pleasure at being in London again, of the little wearinesses and depressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly:
“And Kent? What has become of him?”
“He is still alive,” said Clytie.
“Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you have been away. He has treated us very badly. You must scold him for me. What has he to say for himself?”
“I don't know; I haven't seen him yet, and I have scarcely heard from him. I shall have to scold him on my own account,” she added, brightening.
“That's odd of him,” said Caroline. “You are such inseparables that I thought he would have been waiting for you with a bouquet in each hand when you entered the house.”
Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her with Covent Garden tributes.
“I would just as soon think of him reading me a sonnet. But I did expect him to come down to tell me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out a scheme for the better occupation of it.”
“Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody whilst he has been left to his own devices,” said Caroline teasingly.
“Oh, how can you say such wicked things?” cried Clytie. “Of course he hasn't!”