She let her flowers fall from her basket, scatteredand tumbled them on to the grass and, reluctantlyand hesitatingly, but without question or complaint—had she not the faculty of obedience to perfec-tion?—went too. Down fields, across valleys, white,flower-strewn—that was how she would have paintedit. The hills were austere. It was rocky; it was steep.The waves sounded hoarse on the stones beneath.They went, the three of them together, Mrs. Ramsaywalking rather fast in front, as if she expected tomeet some one round the corner.

Suddenly the window at which she was lookingwas whitened by some light stuff behind it. At lastthen somebody had come into the drawing-room;somebody was sitting in the chair. For Heaven’ssake, she prayed, let them sit still there and notcome floundering out to talk to her. Mercifully,whoever it was stayed still inside; had settled bysome stroke of luck so as to throw an odd-shapedtriangular shadow over the step. It altered thecomposition of the picture a little. It was interesting.It might be useful. Her mood was coming back toher. One must keep on looking without for a secondrelaxing the intensity of emotion, the determinationnot to be put off, not to be bamboozled. One musthold the scene—so—in a vise and let nothing comein and spoil it. One wanted, she thought, dipping299
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