‘You think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. But it would be too risky. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. He became ugly and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing her. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol.
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