Smith made
straight for them and as invariably had the feeling that his approach was
not disturbing a very intimate conversation. He sat with them, through a
silent hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go. Mr.
Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish a minute or so
before, and then watch through the diamond panes of an upstairs room
"that man" take a lingering look outside the gate at the invisible Flora,
lift his hat, like a caller, and go off down the road. Then only Mr.
Smith would join his daughter again.
These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of course, but
frequently. It was nothing extraordinary to hear Mr. Smith begin gently
with some observation like this:
"That man is getting tired of you."
He would never pronounce Anthony's name. It was always "that man."
Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes gazing at nothing
between the gnarled fruit trees. Once, however, she got up and walked
into the cottage. Mr. Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged
it down resolutely and in that smooth inexpressive tone so many ears used
to bend eagerly to catch when it came from the Great de Barral he said:
"Let's get away.
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