She had discarded her original theory that some long-ago romance linked
Eliot Coventry and Mrs. Hilyard together. Neither of them appeared to her
to be in the least thrilled by the fact of the other's proximity in the
neighbourhood, nor did either make any obvious effort to avoid or cultivate
the other's society. If they chanced to meet they exchanged civilities as
the merest acquaintances might do, and gradually Ann came to believe that
their knowledge of each other was based on nothing more profound than a
slight friendship of many years ago, which had more or less petered out
with the passage of time.
Cara, for all her quick sympathy and eager friendship, was reticent as
regards the past, and Ann's attitude towards her held an element of that
loyal, enthusiastic devotion which an older woman not infrequently inspires
in one considerably younger than herself--a devotion which accepts things
as they are and has no wish to pry into the secrets of the past.
One circumstance of Cara's former life had come to Ann's knowledge
unavoidably--the fact that her husband, Dene Hilyard, had ill-treated her.
A most trifling accident had served to reveal it. She and Ann had been
gathering roses together in the Priory garden, and, in straining up to
reach a particularly lovely bloom that hung from the roof of the pergola,
Cara's thin muslin sleeve had caught on a projecting nail which had ripped
it apart from shoulder to elbow.
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