Mary
Ogilvie, coming to Kenminster as usual when her holidays began in
June, found the photograph in the place of honour on her brother's
chimney-piece, and a little one beside it of the artist herself.
So far as Carey herself was concerned, Mary was much better
satisfied. She did not look so worn or so flighty, and had a quieter
and more really cheerful tone and manner, as of one who had settled
into her home and occupations. She had made friends, too—-few, but
worth having; and there were those who pronounced the Folly the
pleasantest house in Kenminster, and regarded the five o'clock tea,
after the weekly physical science lecture at the school, as a
delightful institution.
Of course, the schoolmaster was one of these; and when Mary found how
all his paths tended to the Pagoda, she hated herself for being a
suspicious old duenna. Nevertheless, she could not but be alarmed by
finding that her project of a walking tour through Brittany was not,
indeed, refused, but deferred, with excuses about having work to
finish, being in no hurry, and the like.
"I think you ought to go," said Mary at last.
"I see no ought in the case. Last year the work dragged, and was
oppressive; but you see how different it has become."
"That is the very reason," said Mary, the colour flying to her
checks.
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