The imminence of his arrival
reminded her of his dullness, his handsome, sullen face and, more
tenderly, of those tears which had put her so oddly in his debt. But
she had no difficulty in casting away the false image she had made.
She was, she found, glad to be rid of it; she liked to feel herself
delivered of a weakness.
But she need not have been in such a hurry, for it was some months
before the man who brought the milk from Sales Hall also brought the
news that the master was returning. This information was handed to
Caroline and Sophia with their early tea.
Sitting up in bed and looking grotesquely terrible, they discussed the
event. Caroline, like Medusa, but with hair curlers instead of snakes
sprouting from her head, and Sophia with her heavy plait hanging over
her shoulder and defying with its luxuriance the yellowness of her
skin, they sat side by side, propped up with pillows, inured to the
sight of each other in undress.
'He has come back!' Sophia said ecstatically. 'Perhaps after all--'
'Oh, nonsense!' Caroline said as usual, 'she's meant for better
things. My dear, she was born for a great affair. She ought to be the
mistress of a king. Yes, something of that kind, with her looks, her
phlegm.'
'But there are no kings in Radstowe,' Sophia said, 'and I don't think
you ought to say such things.'
'It's my way. You ought to know that. And I can't control my tongue
any more than Reginald can control his body.
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