Mr. Flushing and St. John were
engaged in more or less continuous conversation about the future of the
country from a political point of view, and the degree to which it
had been explored; the others, with their legs stretched out, or chins
poised on the hands, gazed in silence.
Mrs. Ambrose looked and listened obediently enough, but inwardly she
was prey to an uneasy mood not readily to be ascribed to any one cause.
Looking on shore as Mr. Flushing bade her, she thought the country
very beautiful, but also sultry and alarming. She did not like to feel
herself the victim of unclassified emotions, and certainly as the launch
slipped on and on, in the hot morning sun, she felt herself unreasonably
moved. Whether the unfamiliarity of the forest was the cause of it,
or something less definite, she could not determine. Her mind left the
scene and occupied itself with anxieties for Ridley, for her children,
for far-off things, such as old age and poverty and death. Hirst, too,
was depressed. He had been looking forward to this expedition as to a
holiday, for, once away from the hotel, surely wonderful things would
happen, instead of which nothing happened, and here they were as
uncomfortable, as restrained, as self-conscious as ever. That, of
course, was what came of looking forward to anything; one was always
disappointed. He blamed Wilfrid Flushing, who was so well dressed and so
formal; he blamed Hewet and Rachel.
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