Her husband had long viewed her as a lay figure
on these occasions. He rarely replied to her flat remarks, her
inconsequent platitudes, her yawns and quite transparent signals
that it was time for the visitor to go. Sometimes David took her
hints and left: he had no business to make himself a bore to any
one. Sometimes however Michael at last roused to consciousness of
the fretful little presence would say "What? Sweety? _You_ still up.
Trot off to bed, my poppet, or you'll lose the roses in your
cheeks."
The roses in Mrs. Rossiter's cheeks at that time were beginning to
be a trifle eczematous and of a fixed quality. Nevertheless, though
she tossed her head a little as she took up her "work" and swished
out of the great heavy door--which David opened--she was pleased to
think that Michael cared for her complexion and was solicitous about
her rest.
And Vivie's eyes swam a little as she thought about the death of
Mark Stansfield, and the genuine tears that flowed down the cheeks
of his pupils when they learnt one raw February morning from the
housekeeper of his chambers that he had died at daybreak. "A better
man never lived" they agreed. And they were right.
And she smiled again as she thought of some amongst those pupils,
the young dogs of those days, the lovers of actresses of the minor
order--ballet girls, it might have been; of the larks that went on
sometimes within and without the staid precincts of the Temple.
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