CHAPTER THIRTEEN

nothaveanswered,since,asMrs.DurrantdiscussedwithSirEdgarthepolicyofSirEdwardGrey,Claraonlywonderedwhythecabinetlookeddusty,andJacobhadnevercome.Oh,herewasMrs.CowleyJohnson… AndClarawouldhandtheprettychinateacups,andsmileatthecompliment—thatnooneinLondonmadeteasowellasshedid. "WegetitatBrocklebank's,"shesaid,"inCursitorStreet." Oughtshenottobegrateful?Oughtshenottobehappy? EspeciallysincehermotherlookedsowellandenjoyedsomuchtalkingtoSirEdgaraboutMorocco,Venezuela,orsomesuchplace. "Jacob!Jacob!"thoughtClaraandkindMr.Bowley,whowaseversogoodwitholdladies,lookedstoppedwonderedwhetherElizabethwasn'ttooharshwithherdaughterwonderedaboutBonamy,Jacob—whichyoungfellowwasit?—andjumpedupdirectlyClarasaidshemustexerciseTroy. TheyhadreachedthesiteoftheoldExhibition.Theylookedatthetulips.Stiffandcurled,thelittlerodsofwaxysmoothnessrosefromtheearth,nourishedyetcontained,suffusedwithscarletandcoralpink.Eachhaditsshadoweachgrewtrimlyinthediamond-shapedwedgeasthegardenerhadplannedit. "Barnesnevergetsthemtogrowlikethat,"Claramusedshesighed. "Youareneglectingyourfriends,"saidBowley,assomeone,goingtheotherway,liftedhishat.ShestartedacknowledgedMr.LionelParry'sbowwastedonhimwhathadsprungforJacob. ("Jacob!Jacob!"shethought.) "Butyou'llgetrunoverifIletyougo,"shesaidtothedog. "Englandseemsallright,"saidMr.Bowley. TheloopoftherailingbeneaththestatueofAchilleswasfullofparasolsandwaistcoatschainsandbanglesofladiesandgentlemen,loungingelegantly,lightlyobservant. "'ThisstatuewaserectedbythewomenofEngland…'"Clarareadoutwithafoolishlittlelaugh."Oh,Mr.Bowley!Oh!"Gallop—gallop—gallop—ahorsegallopedpastwithoutarider.Thestirrupsswungthepebblesspurted. "Oh,stop!Stopit,Mr.Bowley!"shecried,white,trembling,grippinghisarm,utterlyunconscious,thetearscoming. "Tut-tut!"saidMr.Bowleyinhisdressing-roomanhourlater."Tut-tut!"—acommentthatwasprofoundenough,thoughinarticulatelyexpressed,sincehisvaletwashandinghisshirtstuds. JuliaEliot,too,hadseenthehorserunaway,andhadrisenfromherseattowatchtheendoftheincident,which,sinceshecameofasportingfamily,seemedtoherslightlyridiculous.SureenoughthelittlemancamepoundingbehindwithhisbreechesdustylookedthoroughlyannoyedandwasbeinghelpedtomountbyapolicemanwhenJuliaEliot,withasardonicsmile,turnedtowardstheMarbleArchonhererrandofmercy.ItwasonlytovisitasickoldladywhohadknownhermotherandperhapstheDukeofWellingtonforJuliasharedtheloveofhersexforthedistressedlikedtovisitdeath-bedsthrewslippersatweddingsreceivedconfidencesbythedozenknewmorepedigreesthanascholarknowsdates,andwasoneofthekindliest,mostgenerous,leastcontinentofwomen. YetfiveminutesaftershehadpassedthestatueofAchillesshehadtheraptlookofonebrushingthroughcrowdsonasummer'safternoon,whenthetreesarerustling,thewheelschurningyellow,andthetumultofthepresentseemslikeanelegyforpastyouthandpastsummers,andthereroseinhermindacurioussadness,asiftimeandeternityshowedthroughskirtsandwaistcoasts,andshesawpeoplepassingtragicallytodestruction.Yet,Heavenknows,Juliawasnofool.Asharperwomanatabargaindidnotexist.Shewasalwayspunctual.ThewatchonherwristgavehertwelveminutesandahalfinwhichtoreachBrutonStreet.LadyCongreveexpectedheratfive. ThegiltclockatVerrey'swasstrikingfive. Florindalookedatitwithadullexpression,likeananimal.Shelookedattheclocklookedatthedoorlookedatthelongglassoppositedisposedhercloakdrewclosertothetable,forshewaspregnant—nodoubtaboutit,MotherStuartsaid,recommendingremedies,consultingfriendssunk,caughtbytheheel,asshetrippedsolightlyoverthesurface. Hertumblerofpinkishsweetstuffwassetdownbythewaiterandshesucked,throughastraw,hereyesonthelooking-glass,onthedoor,nowsoothedbythesweettaste.WhenNickB