"You're not to think about those guns," said Clarissa, seeing that his
eye, passing over the waves, still sought the land meditatively, "or
about navies, or empires, or anything." So saying she opened the book
and began to read:
"'Sir Walter Elliott, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man
who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the
_Baronetage_'--don't you know Sir Walter?--'There he found occupation
for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one.' She does write
well, doesn't she? 'There--'" She read on in a light humorous voice. She
was determined that Sir Walter should take her husband's mind off the
guns of Britain, and divert him in an exquisite, quaint, sprightly, and
slightly ridiculous world. After a time it appeared that the sun was
sinking in that world, and the points becoming softer. Rachel looked
up to see what caused the change. Richard's eyelids were closing and
opening; opening and closing. A loud nasal breath announced that he no
longer considered appearances, that he was sound asleep.
"Triumph!" Clarissa whispered at the end of a sentence. Suddenly she
raised her hand in protest. A sailor hesitated; she gave the book to
Rachel, and stepped lightly to take the message--"Mr. Grice wished
to know if it was convenient," etc. She followed him. Ridley, who had
prowled unheeded, started forward, stopped, and, with a gesture of
disgust, strode off to his study.
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