A Fringe of Leaves [antikvár]

As the carriage drew away from the Circular Wharf Mr Stafford Merivale tapped the back of his wife's hand and remarked that they had done their duty. 'No one', Mrs Merivale replied, 'can accuse me of neglecting duty.' She might have pouted if inherent indolence had not prevailed, and a suspicion that those acquainted with her must know that her claim was not strictly true. So she smoothed the kid into which her hands had been stuffed, and added, 'At least we were, I think, agreeably entertained. And that is always compensation for any kind of inconvenience. Miss Scrimshaw,' she asked, looking not quite at her fnend, 'weren't we entertained?' 'Oh yes, most agreeably,' the latter answered in a rush, which transposed what must have been a deep voice into a higher, unnatural key. 'Living at such a distance nobody can fail to be refreshed by visitors from Home. The pity is when their visits are so brief Mrs Merivale decided to appear satisfied, while Miss Scrimshaw, obviously, was not. An atmosphere of unconfessed presentiment was intensified by the slight creaking of woodwork and fiiction of leather in the comfortably upholstered carriage. Rocked together and apart by the uneven surface of the street the occupants were at the mercy of the land as seaborne passengers are threatened by the waves. 'Short visits make no demands,' Mrs Merivale consoled herself. 'Don't you agree?' Mr Merivale being a man, there was no question but that her remark was intended for Miss Scrimshaw. 'oh yes,' she answered as expected, 'there is that about short visits.'