This morning she sent for me, when she was dressing, to know if it were true, as Mr.Derringham had told her, that, if the Radicals got in, they might last seven years--because, if so, she would then be almost thirty-eight, and the best days of her youth would be over.

I do not dare to think what these remarks may mean, but in connection with the fact that she receives daily letters from Mr.Hanbury-Green--that unpleasant Socialistic person who is coming so much to the front--I almost fear, and yet hope, that there is some chance for Mr.Derringham's escape.
He is bearing his trouble as only an English gentleman could do, and at lunch paid her every attention.
And old Mrs.Clinker smiled when she got this letter.
But by the end of the afternoon John Derringham's face wore no smiles; a blank despair had settled upon him.
They drove along the Arno and into the Gardens.
It was warm and beautiful, but, so forceful is a hostile atmosphere created between two people, they both found it impossible to make conversation.
Mrs.Cricklander was burning with rage and a sense of impotency.

She felt her words and all her arts of pleasing were being nullified, and that she was up against an odious situation in which her strongest weapons were powerless.

It made her nervous and very cross.

She particularly resented not being able to ascertain the cause of the change in him, and felt personally aggrieved at his still being a wretched wreck hobbling with a stick.