Queensland Birkett knows. He wants to exchange his practice for something in the south. You’ll be better there. And we can leave Rodney in Sydney on the way.
She was very still. But he could feel her relief, the gratitude inside her, because they would go away, Hilda receiving one more chance to put out her hand towards certainty.
I didn’t mean, she mumbled. I only thought that Rodney…
I’ll write to Birkett to-night, he said. Ask him to get in touch with this friend of his.
It would be better in Queensland. It would be warm, said Hilda slowly, slowly beginning to clear away the things.
She was tranquil now. He seemed to have stopped the quivering of some little nerve that whipped her into a ceaseless running to and fro. But she looked tired clearing away the things.
You ought to lie down, said Hilda, because she was like that, she had to transfer her own sensations and emotions to those she came in contact with.
He kissed her on the back of the neck, very lightly conscious of the scent of her neck which he knew so well, the scent and shape, sitting on a seat in the Botanical Gardens, when he thought he knew everything. And now he knew nothing, or at least he did not know Hilda, nothing more than the scent and shape.
He opened his mouth to say—what? Something that he would not say. So he went away along the passage to the dispensary, where he would lie down. He was tired. And later on she would bring him tea. Out in the yard George played with a cartload of stones, and Happy Valley stretched away back in grey sweeps, the child playing in the foreground unconscious of what had been arranged. He would write to Birkett to-night. And Happy Valley stretched away, greyly sweeping, the curve of telephone poles. He was standing in the window at the head of that great unconscious plain, how very grey, putting a hand to his beard, he must shave, he must sleep, he must leave Happy Valley to-night, to-morrow, sleeping for an hour or two on the hair sofa in the dispensary, it would take a month or two at least to drag up the roots and deliversafely on a towel that red child and she said hurt. He had been rather short. The way she held her wrist. She said Miss Browne. He would go up there in the evening and see, because he had not meant to be rude.
8
Mrs Furlow tried the door. It was locked.
Sidney, dear! she called. Sid-ney!
Yes?
What are you doing, dear?
Nothing, Mother.
Mrs Furlow stood by the door, one hand raised in perplexity to her mouth.
Hadn’t you better go out and get some air?
I can’t go out in the wet.
It isn’t raining now. You ought to take some exercise.
Silence made Mrs Furlow frown. She bent her head to the door and frowned.
You ought to go for a ride, she said. I’ll tell Charlie to saddle your horse.
Then she went away. She was passably content. She had arranged that Sidney should go for a ride.
Mrs Furlow’s habitual expression was one of puzzlement, because frankly her daughter puzzled her, and her chief preoccupation was her daughter. She used to say, when I was a girl I didn’t do this or that, but it was a statement that did not help matters at all. I do my best, she said, which meant that she made arrangements. She made many arrangements. She had arranged that Sidney should marry a young man called Kemble, an Englishman, who was A.D.C. at Government House. The young man did not know. But Mrs Furlow did, and that was half the battle. Mr Furlow only grunted and left her alone to do her best. Mr Furlow was very equable, and his daughter loved him. Sidney is
passionately
fond of her father, Mrs Furlow said, this without any bitterness, or as if she had resolved to make the best of a galling situation by suggesting that Sidney’s passion was a flower fostered by her own hands. For Mrs Furlow’s consolation was her own capability, whether as a president of charities or as the disposer of other people’s affections.
Sidney puzzled her, but did not otherwise upset her comfortable
She was very still. But he could feel her relief, the gratitude inside her, because they would go away, Hilda receiving one more chance to put out her hand towards certainty.
I didn’t mean, she mumbled. I only thought that Rodney…
I’ll write to Birkett to-night, he said. Ask him to get in touch with this friend of his.
It would be better in Queensland. It would be warm, said Hilda slowly, slowly beginning to clear away the things.
She was tranquil now. He seemed to have stopped the quivering of some little nerve that whipped her into a ceaseless running to and fro. But she looked tired clearing away the things.
You ought to lie down, said Hilda, because she was like that, she had to transfer her own sensations and emotions to those she came in contact with.
He kissed her on the back of the neck, very lightly conscious of the scent of her neck which he knew so well, the scent and shape, sitting on a seat in the Botanical Gardens, when he thought he knew everything. And now he knew nothing, or at least he did not know Hilda, nothing more than the scent and shape.
He opened his mouth to say—what? Something that he would not say. So he went away along the passage to the dispensary, where he would lie down. He was tired. And later on she would bring him tea. Out in the yard George played with a cartload of stones, and Happy Valley stretched away back in grey sweeps, the child playing in the foreground unconscious of what had been arranged. He would write to Birkett to-night. And Happy Valley stretched away, greyly sweeping, the curve of telephone poles. He was standing in the window at the head of that great unconscious plain, how very grey, putting a hand to his beard, he must shave, he must sleep, he must leave Happy Valley to-night, to-morrow, sleeping for an hour or two on the hair sofa in the dispensary, it would take a month or two at least to drag up the roots and deliversafely on a towel that red child and she said hurt. He had been rather short. The way she held her wrist. She said Miss Browne. He would go up there in the evening and see, because he had not meant to be rude.
8
Mrs Furlow tried the door. It was locked.
Sidney, dear! she called. Sid-ney!
Yes?
What are you doing, dear?
Nothing, Mother.
Mrs Furlow stood by the door, one hand raised in perplexity to her mouth.
Hadn’t you better go out and get some air?
I can’t go out in the wet.
It isn’t raining now. You ought to take some exercise.
Silence made Mrs Furlow frown. She bent her head to the door and frowned.
You ought to go for a ride, she said. I’ll tell Charlie to saddle your horse.
Then she went away. She was passably content. She had arranged that Sidney should go for a ride.
Mrs Furlow’s habitual expression was one of puzzlement, because frankly her daughter puzzled her, and her chief preoccupation was her daughter. She used to say, when I was a girl I didn’t do this or that, but it was a statement that did not help matters at all. I do my best, she said, which meant that she made arrangements. She made many arrangements. She had arranged that Sidney should marry a young man called Kemble, an Englishman, who was A.D.C. at Government House. The young man did not know. But Mrs Furlow did, and that was half the battle. Mr Furlow only grunted and left her alone to do her best. Mr Furlow was very equable, and his daughter loved him. Sidney is
passionately
fond of her father, Mrs Furlow said, this without any bitterness, or as if she had resolved to make the best of a galling situation by suggesting that Sidney’s passion was a flower fostered by her own hands. For Mrs Furlow’s consolation was her own capability, whether as a president of charities or as the disposer of other people’s affections.
Sidney puzzled her, but did not otherwise upset her comfortable
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