The little grey figure of Lady Casterley, coming out of the station
doorway, showed but slight sign of her long travel. She stopped to take
the car in, from chauffeur to Courtier.
"Well, Frith!--Mr. Courtier, is it? I know your book, and I don't
approve of you; you're a dangerous man--How do you do? I must have those
two bags. The cart can bring the rest.... Randle, get up in front, and
don't get dusty. Ann!" But Ann was already beside the chauffeur, having
long planned this improvement. "H'm! So you've hurt your leg, sir? Keep
still! We can sit three.... Now, my dear, I can kiss you! You've grown!"
Lady Casterley's kiss, once received, was never forgotten; neither
perhaps was Barbara's. Yet they were different. For, in the case of
Lady Casterley, the old eyes, bright and investigating, could be seen
deciding the exact spot for the lips to touch; then the face with its
firm chin was darted forward; the lips paused a second, as though to
make quite certain, then suddenly dug hard and dry into the middle
of the cheek, quavered for the fraction of a second as if trying to
remember to be soft, and were relaxed like the elastic of a catapult.
And in the case of Barbara, first a sort of light came into her eyes,
then her chin tilted a little, then her lips pouted a little, her body
quivered, as if it were getting a size larger, her hair breathed, there
was a small sweet sound; it was over.
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