slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one
cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly
people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the
entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of
them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her
brain.

Chapter XV: The Disaster Within

The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most
of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up
the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of
mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the
heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves
unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in
either arose the tinkle of church bells.

The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which
lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent
sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't
go"--"Well, I don't blame them"--Minnie says, "need she go?"--"Tell
her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I
trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she
at all events was one for church.

The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by
Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies
whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down
at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on
George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the
catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The
ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender
shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning
by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the
caress.

Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise
dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her
throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an
engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a
little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not
to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may
frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo
and the western hills.

"