But if God is kind to me, someday I may climb up to where you are. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. I mean—I mean to do what I can. They were the only real marriages she had seen clearly. There was plenty of sweet water. Fool that I was to marry for beauty! I ought to have remembered that a fair woman and a slashed gown always find some nail in the way.
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