Yvette did not keep her promise. The few March days were lovely, and she let them slip.
She had a curious reluctance always, towards taking action, or making any real move of
her own. She always wanted someone else to make a move for her, as if she did not want
to play her own game of life.
She lived as usual, went out to her friends, to parties, and danced with the undiminished
Leo. She wanted to go up and say goodbye to the gipsies. She wanted to. And nothing
prevented her.
On the Friday afternoon especially she wanted to go. It was sunny, and the last yellow
crocuses down the drive were in full blaze, wide open, the first bees rolling in them. The
Papple rushed under the stone bridge, uncannily full, nearly filling the arches. There was
the scent of a mezereon tree.
And she felt too lazy, too lazy, too lazy. She strayed in the garden by the river, half
dreamy, expecting something. While the gleam of spring sun lasted, she would be out of
doors. Indoors Granny, sitting back like some awful old prelate, in her bulk of black silk
and her white lace cap, was warming her feet by the fire, and hearing everything that Aunt
Nell had to say. Friday was Aunt Nell's day. She usually came for lunch, and left after an
early tea. So the mother and the large, rather common daughter, who was a widow at the
age of forty, sat gossiping by the fire, while Aunt Cissie prowled in and out. Friday was
the rector's day for going to town: it was also the housemaid's half day.
Yvette sat on a wooden seat in the garden, only a few feet above the bank of the swollen
river, which rolled a strange, uncanny mass of water. The crocuses were passing in the
ornamental beds, the grass was dark green where it was mown, the laurels looked a little
brighter. Aunt Cissie appeared at the top of the porch steps, and called to ask if Yvette
wanted that early cup of tea. Because of the river just below, Yvette could not hear what
Aunt Cissie said, but she guessed, and shook her head. An early cup of tea, indoors, when
the sun actually shone? No thanks!
She was conscious of her gipsy, as she sat there musing in the sun. Her soul had the half
painful, half easing knack of leaving her, and straying away to some place, to somebody
that had caught her imagination. Some days she would be all the Framleys, even though
she did not go near them. Some days, she was all the time in spirit with the Eastwoods.
And today it was the gipsies. She was up at their encampment in the quarry. She saw the
man hammering his copper, lifting his head to look at the road; and the children playing in
the horse–shelter: and the women, the gipsy's wife and the strong, elderly woman, coming
home with their packs, along with the elderly man. For this afternoon, she felt intensely
