She could not have done less than what she did; this was
certainly true. But her necessity, all the same, had been as graceless
as some physical act in a strained attitude, and she felt no desire to
take credit for her conduct. Mixed with this imperfect pride,
nevertheless, was a feeling of freedom which in itself was sweet and
which, as she wandered through the great city with her ill-matched
companions, occasionally throbbed into odd demonstrations. When she
walked in Kensington Gardens she stopped the children (mainly of the
poorer sort) whom she saw playing on the grass; she asked them their
names and gave them sixpence and, when they were pretty, kissed
them. Ralph noticed these quaint charities; he noticed everything
she did. One afternoon, that his companions might pass the time, he
invited them to tea in Winchester Square, and he had the house set
in order as much as possible for their visit. There was another
guest to meet them, an amiable bachelor, an old friend of Ralph's
who happened to be in town and for whom prompt commerce with Miss
Stackpole appeared to have neither difficulty nor dread. Mr. Bantling,
a stout, sleek, smiling man of forty, wonderfully dressed, universally
informed and incoherently amused, laughed immoderately at everything
Henrietta said, gave her several cups of tea, examined in her
society the bric-a-brac, of which Ralph had a considerable collection,
and afterwards, when the host proposed they should go out into the
square and pretend it was a fete-champetre, walked round the limited
enclosure several times with her and, at a dozen turns of their
talk, bounded responsive- as with a positive passion for argument-
to her remarks upon the inner life.
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