Besides giving the vague, cobwebby stuff a
body it did not deserve.
But yet again this was not the whole truth: she had another, more
uncomfortable side of it to face; and the flies buzzed unheeded round
her head. The astonishment she had shown at her sister-in-law's warning
had not been altogether sincere. Far down in her heart Mary found a
faint, faint trace of complicity. For months past--she could admit it
now--she had not felt easy about Purdy. Something disagreeable,
disturbing, had crept into their relations. The jolly, brotherly manner
she liked so well had deserted him; besides short-tempered he had grown
deadly serious, and not the stupidest woman could fail altogether to see
what the matter was. But she had wilfully bandaged her eyes. And if, now
and then, some word or look had pierced her guard and disquieted her in
spite of herself, she had left it at an incredulous: "Oh, but
then. . . But even if. . . In that case. . . ." She now saw her fervent
hope had been that the affair would blow over without coming to anything;
prove to be just another passing fancy on the part of the unstable Purdy.
How many had she not assisted at! This very summer, for instance, a
charming young lady from Sydney had stayed with the Urquharts; and, as
long as her visit lasted, they had seen little or nothing of Purdy.
Whenever he got off duty he was at Yarangobilly. As it happened, however,
Mr. Urquhart himself had been so assiduous in taking his guest about that
Purdy had had small chance of making an impression.
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