"Where have you been?" inquired Dicky, "if I may ask."
"At Vallombrosa."
There was also a parasol and it twisted indifferently.
"Ah--among the leaves! And were they as thick as William says they are?"
"I don't understand you." And, indeed, this levity assorted
incomprehensively with the black despair that sat on Dicky's
countenance. It was really very painful in spite of Mrs. Portheris's
unusual humanity and Mr. Mafferton's obvious though embarrassed joy, and
as Mrs. Portheris's cab drove up at the moment I made a tentative
attempt to bring the interview to a close. "Mr. Dod and I are walking,"
I said.
"Ah, these little strolls!" exclaimed Mrs. Portheris, with benignant
humour. "I suppose we must condone them now!" and she waved her hand,
rolling away, as if she gave us a British matron's blessing.
"Oh, don't!" I cried. "Don't condone them--you mustn't!" But my words
fell short in a cloud of dust, and even Dicky, wrapped in his tragedy,
failed to receive an impression from them.
"How," he demanded passionately, "do you account for it?"
"Account for what?" I shuffled.
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