Miss Townsend said she would do whatever Edith liked. She could easily
arrange to go with them at once. This was a relief, for just at this
moment Edith felt as if even the children would be a burden.

Sweet, gentle Miss Townsend went away. She was dressed rather like
herself, Edith observed; she imitated Edith. She had the soft, graceful
manner and sweet voice of her employer. She was slim and had a pretty
figure, but was entirely without Edith's charm or beauty. Vaguely Edith
wondered if she would ever have a love affair, ever marry. She hoped
so, but (selfishly) not till Archie went to Eton.

Then she found herself looking at her lonely lunch; she tried to eat,
gave it up, asked for a cup of tea.

At last, she could bear the flat no longer. It was a glorious day, very
hot, Edith felt peculiar. She thought that if she spent all the
afternoon out and alone, it would comfort her, and she would think it
out. Trees and sky and sun had always a soothing effect on her. She
went out, walked a little, felt worried by the crowd of shoppers
swarming to Sloane Street and the Brompton Road, got into a taxi and
drove to the gate of Kensington Gardens, opposite Kensington Gore. Here
she soon found a seat. At this time of the day the gardens were rather
unoccupied, and in the burning July afternoon she felt almost as if in
the country. She took off her gloves--a gesture habitual with her
whenever possible. She looked utterly restful. She had nothing in her
hands, for she never carried either a parasol or a bag, nor even in
winter a muff or in the evening a fan. All these little accessories
seemed unnecessary to her. She liked to simplify. She hated fuss,
anything worrying, agitating.