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The Old Wives' Tale

II.3. Cyril
Constance stood at the large, many-paned window in the parlour. She was
stouter. Although always plump, her figure had been comely, with a neat, well-
marked waist. But now the shapeliness had gone; the waist-line no longer
existed, and there were no more crinolines to create it artificially. An observer not
under the charm of her face might have been excused for calling her fat and
lumpy. The face, grave, kind, and expectant, with its radiant, fresh cheeks, and
the rounded softness of its curves, atoned for the figure. She was nearly twenty-
nine years of age.
It was late in October. In Wedgwood Street, next to Boulton Terrace, all the little
brown houses had been pulled down to make room for a palatial covered market,
whose foundations were then being dug. This destruction exposed a vast area of
sky to the north-east. A great dark cloud with an untidy edge rose massively out
of the depths and curtained off the tender blue of approaching dusk; while in the
west, behind Constance, the sun was setting in calm and gorgeous melancholy
on the Thursday hush of the town. It was one of those afternoons which gather
up all the sadness of the moving earth and transform it into beauty.
Samuel Povey turned the corner from Wedgwood Street, and crossed King
Street obliquely to the front-door, which Constance opened. He seemed tired and
anxious.
"Well?" demanded Constance, as he entered.
"She's no better. There's no getting away from it, she's worse. I should have
stayed, only I knew you'd be worrying. So I caught the three-fifty."
"How is that Mrs. Gilchrist shaping as a nurse?"
"She's very good," said Samuel, with conviction. "Very good!"
"What a blessing! I suppose you didn't happen to see the doctor?"
"Yes, I did."
"What did he say to you?"
Samuel gave a deprecating gesture. "Didn't say anything particular. With dropsy,
at that stage, you know ..."
Constance had returned to the window, her expectancy apparently unappeased.
"I don't like the look of that cloud," she murmured.
"What! Are they out still?" Samuel inquired, taking off his overcoat.
"Here they are!" cried Constance. Her features suddenly transfigured, she sprang
to the door, pulled it open, and descended the steps.
A perambulator was being rapidly pushed up the slope by a breathless girl.
"Amy," Constance gently protested, "I told you not to venture far."
"I hurried all I could, mum, soon as I seed that cloud," the girl puffed, with the air
of one who is seriously thankful to have escaped a great disaster.
Constance dived into the recesses of the perambulator and extricated from its
cocoon the centre of the universe, and scrutinized him with quiet passion, and
then rushed with him into the house, though not a drop of rain had yet fallen.
"Precious!" exclaimed Amy, in ecstasy, her young virginal eyes following him till
he disappeared. Then she wheeled away the perambulator, which now had no
 
 
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