Rickman. He found himself answering with appropriate
light-heartedness; he heard himself laughing in the manner of one
infinitely at ease. It was impossible to be anything else in Kitty
Palliser's society. He was, in fact, surprised. Though it was only by
immense expenditure of thought and effort that he managed to secure
the elusive aspirate, still he secured it. Never for a moment did he
allow himself to be cheated into the monstrous belief that its absence
was, or could be unperceived.
But though he was grateful to Miss Palliser, he wished all the time
that she would go. At last she rose and drew her fur-collared cloak
about her with a slow, reluctant air.
"Well, I suppose I must be off. I shall be back before eleven, Lucy.
Good-night, Mr. Rickman, if I don't see you again."
He was alone with Lucia Harden.
It was one thing to be alone with Lucia Harden in the library or on
Harcombe Moor, and quite another thing to be left with her in that
lamp-lit, fire-lit room. The library belonged to her race and to their
historic past; the moor to nature and to all time; this room to her
and to the burning present. There was no sign or suggestion of another
presence.
A kindly room (barring that parquet floor!); a beautiful room; full of
warm lights, and broad and pleasing shadows; furnished with an extreme
simplicity, such bareness as musicians love. He was struck by that
absence of all trivial decoration, all disturbing and irrelevant
detail.
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