' . . . A line from Herbert--so
busy, poor fellow! Ah! Margaret says, 'Poor old Mrs. Fairbank died
on the eighth, quite suddenly in the conservatory, only a maid in the
house, who hadn't the presence of mind to lift her up, which they think
might have saved her, but the doctor says it might have come at any
moment, and one can only feel thankful that it was in the house and not
in the street (I should think so!). The pigeons have increased terribly,
just as the rabbits did five years ago . . .'" While she read her
husband kept nodding his head very slightly, but very steadily in sign
of approval.
Near by, Miss Allan was reading her letters too. They were not
altogether pleasant, as could be seen from the slight rigidity which
came over her large fine face as she finished reading them and replaced
them neatly in their envelopes. The lines of care and responsibility
on her face made her resemble an elderly man rather than a woman. The
letters brought her news of the failure of last year's fruit crop in New
Zealand, which was a serious matter, for Hubert, her only brother, made
his living on a fruit farm, and if it failed again, of course, he would
throw up his place, come back to England, and what were they to do with
him this time? The journey out here, which meant the loss of a term's
work, became an extravagance and not the just and wonderful holiday due
to her after fifteen years of punctual lecturing and correcting essays
upon English literature.
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