uspended for so long that he began to fear, wrongly
however, that she was about to put forward some accusation, to twit him
perchance on his lack of loyalty to his dead friend. He had not eaten a
banana for dinner, though he had intended to eat one. 'Of course, we
shall never find anyone like him,' she said--'not if we were to search
all the corners of the world. That is so, we're both agreed on that
point, but I've been thinking which of all our friends and acquaintances
would least unworthily fill his place in our lives.' 'Violet! Violet!'
'If you persist in misunderstanding me,' she answered, 'I have no more
to say,' whereupon the Marquis tried to persuade the Marchioness out of
the morose silence that had fallen upon them, and failing to move her he
raised the question that had divided them. 'If you mean, Violet, that
our racing friend would be a poor shift for our dead friend, meaning
thereby that nobody in Dublin is comparable'--'could I have meant
anything else, you old dear?' she replied; and the ice having been
broken, the twain plunged at once into the waters of recollection, and
coming upon a current they were borne onward, swiftly and more swiftly,
till at length a decision had to be come to--they would invite their
racing friend.

It was on the Marquis's lips to say a word or two in disparagement of
the invited guest, but on second thoughts it seemed to him that he had
better refrain; the Marchioness, too, was about to plead, she did not
know exactly what, but she thought she would like to reassure the
Marquis. . . . On second thoughts she decided too that it would be better
(perhaps) to refrain. Well, to escape from the toils of an interesting
story (for I'm no longer a story-teller but a prefacer) I will say that
three nights later Sir Hugh took the Marchioness in to dinner; he sat in
his predecessor's chair, knowing nothing of him, thereby startling his
hosts, who, however, soon recovered their presence of mind. After dinner
the Marquis said, 'Now, Sir Hugh, I hope you will excuse me if I go
upstairs. I am taking the racing calendar with me, you see.'

My forerunner, the author of _Muslin_, should have written the story
sketched here with a failing hand, his young wit would have allowed him
to tell how the marriage that had wilted sadly after the death of Uncle
Toby now renewed its youth, opening its leaves to the light again,
shaking itself in the gay breezes floating by. He would have been able
in thi