"The debate on the fifteenth should have reached us by now," Mrs.
Thornbury murmured. Mr. Thornbury, who was beautifully clean and had
red rubbed into his handsome worn face like traces of paint on a
weather-beaten wooden figure, looked over his glasses and saw that Miss
Allan had _The_ _Times_.
The couple therefore sat themselves down in arm-chairs and waited.
"Ah, there's Mr. Hewet," said Mrs. Thornbury. "Mr. Hewet," she
continued, "do come and sit by us. I was telling my husband how much you
reminded me of a dear old friend of mine--Mary Umpleby. She was a most
delightful woman, I assure you. She grew roses. We used to stay with her
in the old days."
"No young man likes to have it said that he resembles an elderly
spinster," said Mr. Thornbury.
"On the contrary," said Mr. Hewet, "I always think it a compliment
to remind people of some one else. But Miss Umpleby--why did she grow
roses?"
"Ah, poor thing," said Mrs. Thornbury, "that's a long story. She had
gone through dreadful sorrows. At one time I think she would have lost
her senses if it hadn't been for her garden. The soil was very much
against her--a blessing in disguise; she had to be up at dawn--out
in all weathers. And then there are creatures that eat roses. But she
triumphed. She always did. She was a brave soul." She sighed deeply but
at the same time with resignation.
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