As they
crossed the hall and entered the breakfast-room, Miss Vanstone was full
of the all-absorbing subject of the last night's concert.
"I am so sorry, mamma, you were not with us," she said. "You have been
so strong and so well ever since last summer--you have felt so many
years younger, as you said yourself--that I am sure the exertion would
not have been too much for you."
"Perhaps not, my love--but it was as well to keep on the safe side."
"Quite as well," remarked Miss Garth, appearing at the breakfast-room
door. "Look at Norah (good-morning, my dear)--look, I say, at Norah.
A perfect wreck; a living proof of your wisdom and mine in staying at
home. The vile gas, the foul air, the late hours--what can you expect?
She's not made of iron, and she suffers accordingly. No, my dear, you
needn't deny it. I see you've got a headache."
Norah's dark, handsome face brightened into a smile--then lightly
clouded again with its accustomed quiet reserve.
"A very little headache; not half enough to make me regret the concert,"
she said, and walked away by herself to the window.
On the far side of a garden and paddock the view overlooked a stream,
some farm buildings which lay beyond, and the opening of a wooded,
rocky pass (called, in Somersetshire, a Combe), which here cleft its way
through the hills that closed the prospect.
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