"But a holiday would do you good." Mrs. Merrick was forced to some urgency. Much as she wished this exasperating brother-in-law of hers to feel that she dispensed favours, she seldom met him in one of these sourly suave contests without being made to feel that she was receiving one. Indeed, her odd sceptical, scoffing brother-in-law, his solitude, his disdain, and his pagan-looking house as a background, was a figure she could not afford to miss from her parties--parties often so painfully scraped together--painfully commonplace when scraped. This year her party was surprisingly significant, but even in its midst Austin would count well as her appendage--would certainly redeem her from her husband's heavy conformity, that simply counted for nothing. He impressed her, and she imagined that he must impress other people.
"I have a really interesting group," she said, and she recited the list, adding, "Mr. Jones particularly wants to meet you. He found your book so suggestive--" Mrs. Merrick, in pinching circumstances, was careless of consistency; she had no appearances to keep up before Felicia.
"Jones? Ah, yes," Mr. Merrick repeated with benignity.
"Not bad," Mr. Merrick owned, indulgent in discriminating gravity. "That little book of his on Comte wasn't half bad; you remember it, Felicia?"
Mrs. Merrick had not heard of the book on Comte; it was an added discomfiture. "You will come, then?" She gathered up her reins.
"May we leave it open, Kate? I can, I know, give you a day or two, but may I leave the time and number open? Felicia shall go to you to-morrow, and I will join you as soon as may be." His face had regained its full serenity, and Mrs. Merrick was forced to accept the galling concession.
When she had driven off, Felicia picked up her spade and resumed her digging. Her father stood in the path watching her.
"Could one of Spenser's heroines be imagined digging?" he mused. "The day, the flowers--you among them--bring Spenser to my mind."
"I could imagine Britomart gardening if she had nothing bigger on hand to do," said Felicia. "But I am not a Britomart type."
"And yet you are not unbelligerent, Felicia;--an indolent, unroused Britomart. But I don't see you in armour. Charming, that white dress drenched with sunlight."