of joyous expectancy and palpitations of alarm. It was to have been one
of those rare and solitary occasions that can only come once in a blue
moon. The lump sum of pleasure that other people get spread for them more
or less thickly over the surface of the years, she meant to take once for
all, packed and pressed into one rapturous hour, one Saturday afternoon
from four-thirty to five-thirty, the memory of it to be stored up and
economised so as to last her life-time, thus justifying the original
expense. She knew that success was doubtful, because of the uncertainty
of things in general and of the Old Lady's temper in particular. And then
she had to stake everything on his coming; and the chances, allowing for
the inevitable claims on a doctor's time, were a thousand to one against
it. She had nothing to go upon but the delicate incalculable balance of
events. And now, when the blue moon had risen, the impossible thing
happened, and the man had come, he might just as well, in fact a great
deal better, have stayed away. The whole thing was a waste and failure
from beginning to end. The tea was a waste and a failure, for Martha
would bring it in a quarter of an hour too soon; the cake was a waste
and a failure, for nobody ate any of it; and she was a waste and a
failure--she hardly knew why. She cut her cake with trembling fingers and
offered it, blushing as the gash in its side revealed the thoroughly
unwholesome nature of its interior. She felt ashamed of its sugary
artifice, its treacherously festive air, and its embarrassing affinity to
bride's-cake. No wonder that he had no appetite for cake, and that Miss
Quincey had no appetite for conversation. He tried to tempt her with bits
of Browning, but she refused them all. She had lost her interest in
Browning.

He thought, "She is too tired to talk," and left half an hour sooner than
he had intended.