Lady Holme, like the
rest of the world, felt the powerful influence that lay in her gentleness
as a nerve lies in a body. And then had she not wept when Lady Holme sang
a tender song to her? In a moment they were driving up the Haymarket
together in Lady Cardington's barouche.
The weather had grown brighter. Wavering gleams of light broke through
the clouds and lay across the city, giving a peculiarly unctuous look to
the slimy streets, in which there were a good many pedestrians more or
less splashed with mud. There was a certain hopefulness in the
atmosphere, and yet a pathos such as there always is in Spring, when it
walks through London ways, bearing itself half nervously, like a country
cousin.
"I don't like this time of year," said Lady Cardington.
She was leaning back and glancing anxiously about her.
"But why not?" asked Lady Holme. "What's the matter with it?"
"Youth."
"But surely--"
"The year's too young. And at my age one feels very often as if the
advantage of youth were an unfair advantage."
"Dare I ask--?"
She checked herself, looking at her companion's snow-white hair, which
was arranged in such a way that it looked immensely thick under the big
black hat she wore--a hat half grandmotherly and half coquettish, that
certainly suited her to perfection.
"Spring--" she was beginning rather quickly; but Lady Cardington
interrupted her.
"Fifty-eight," she said.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84