He makes no secret of being mortally
afraid of her, and when I ask what harm she can do him that she
hasn't already done he simply repeats: 'I'm afraid, I'm afraid!
Don't enquire too closely,' he said last night; 'only believe that
I feel a sort of terror. It's strange, when she's so kind! At any
rate, I'd as soon overturn that piece of priceless Sevres as tell
her I must go before my date.' It sounds dreadfully weak, but he
has some reason, and he pays for his imagination, which puts him (I
should hate it) in the place of others and makes him feel, even
against himself, their feelings, their appetites, their motives.
It's indeed inveterately against himself that he makes his
imagination act. What a pity he has such a lot of it! He's too
beastly intelligent. Besides, the famous reading's still to come
off, and it has been postponed a day to allow Guy Walsingham to
arrive. It appears this eminent lady's staying at a house a few
miles off, which means of course that Mrs. Wimbush has forcibly
annexed her. She's to come over in a day or two--Mrs. Wimbush
wants her to hear Mr. Paraday.
"To-day's wet and cold, and several of the company, at the
invitation of the Duke, have driven over to luncheon at Bigwood.
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