He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for an
hour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants'
quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentioned
his coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford just
now, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. She
seemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing the
hostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John.
"I vow, Abbot, you're less lively than a ditch in a dry summer," she
said to him the day after the messenger had been.
"What shall we do to make us merry? You have only to command," he
answered.
"Plague on it, I am at a loss to know. In all our present company
there's not a wit worth listening to, nor a woman with sufficient vice
or virtue to make her interesting. I feel like turning saint for the
sake of a new sensation."
"There are some things even you cannot do, and turning saint is one of
them."
"I would have said as much for you," she returned. "But this morning
your face has already begun to play the part. It might belong to the
painted window of a chapel."
"Is it so uninteresting?" laughed Sir John.
Pages:
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377