They had put it off, as he said; her father was dry and stiff and
official about it. "I suppose I had better let you know we've
thought it best to postpone our marriage till the end of the summer--
Mrs. Churchley has so many arrangements to make": he was not more
expansive than that. She neither knew nor greatly cared whether she
but vainly imagined or correctly observed him to watch her obliquely
for some measure of her receipt of these words. She flattered
herself that, thanks to Godfrey's forewarning, cruel as the form of
it had been, she was able to repress any crude sign of elation. She
had a perfectly good conscience, for she could now judge what odious
elements Mrs. Churchley, whom she had not seen since the morning in
Prince's Gate, had already introduced into their dealings. She
gathered without difficulty that her father hadn't concurred in the
postponement, for he was more restless than before, more absent and
distinctly irritable. There was naturally still the question of how
much of this condition was to be attributed to his solicitude about
Godfrey. That young man took occasion to say a horrible thing to his
sister: "If I don't pass it will be your fault." These were
dreadful days for the girl, and she asked herself how she could have
borne them if the hovering spirit of her mother hadn't been at her
side. Fortunately she always felt it there, sustaining, commending,
sanctifying. Suddenly her father announced to her that he wished her
to go immediately, with her sisters, down to Brinton, where there was
always part of a household and where for a few weeks they would
manage well enough. The only explanation he gave of this desire was
that he wanted them out of the way. Out of the way of what?" she
queried, since there were to be for the time no preparations in
Seymour Street. She was willing to take it for out of the way of his
nerves.