She had put herself in his way.
And Maggie had been before and after her. And Maggie didn't matter
either.
* * * * *
For the magical smell had wrapped itself round Alice Cartaret, and her
dove-gray gown and dove-gray eyes, and round the thought of her. It
twined and tangled her in the subtle mesh. She was held and embalmed
in it forever.
XXVI
It was Wednesday, the day after the concert.
Mr. Cartaret was standing before the fire in his study. He had just
rung the bell and now he waited in an attitude of wisdom and of
patience. It was only ten o'clock in the morning and wisdom and
patience should not be required of any man at such an hour. But the
Vicar had a disagreeable duty to perform.
Whenever the Vicar had a disagreeable duty to perform he performed
it as early as possible in the morning, so that none of its
disagreeableness was lost. The whole day was poisoned by it.
He waited a little longer. And as he waited his patience began to
suffer imperceptibly, though his wisdom remained intact.
He rang again. The bell sounded through the quiet house, angry and
terrifying.
In another moment Essy came in. She had on a clean apron.
She stood by the roll-top desk. It offered her a certain cover and
support. Her brown eyes, liquid and gentle, gazed at him. But for all
her gentleness there was a touch of defiance in her bearing.
"Did you not hear me ring?" said the Vicar.
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