But none had troubled them.
A strange dreamlike mood had come down on Marjorie. At times it seemed
to her in her fatigue as if she had done nothing all her life but ride;
at times, as she sat rocking, she was living still at home, sitting in
the parlour, watching her mother; the illusion was so clear and
continuous that its departure, when her horse stumbled or a companion
spoke, was as an awaking from a dream. At other times she looked about
her; talked; asked questions.
She found Mistress Alice Babington a pleasant friend, some ten years
older than herself, who knew London well, and had plenty to tell her.
She was a fair woman, well built and active; very fond of her brother,
whom she treated almost as a mother treats a son; but she seemed not to
be in his confidence, and even not to wish to be; she thought more of
his comfort than of his ideals. She was a Catholic, of course, but of
the quiet, assured kind, and seemed unable to believe that anyone could
seriously be anything else; she seemed completely confident that the
present distress was a passing one, and that when politics had run their
course, it would presently disappear. Marjorie found her as comfortable
as a pillow, when she was low enough to rest on her....
* * * * *
Though Marjorie had nodded only when the spires of London shone up
suddenly in the evening light, a sharp internal interest awakened in
her. It was as astonishing as a miracle that the end should be in sight;
the past ten days had made it seem to her as if all things which she
desired must eternally recede.
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