Her husband had long viewed her as a lay figure on these occasions.

He rarely replied to her flat remarks, her inconsequent platitudes, her yawns and quite transparent signals that it was time for the visitor to go.

Sometimes David took her hints and left: he had no business to make himself a bore to any one.

Sometimes however Michael at last roused to consciousness of the fretful little presence would say "What?
Sweety?
_You_ still up.
Trot off to bed, my poppet, or you'll lose the roses in your cheeks." The roses in Mrs.Rossiter's cheeks at that time were beginning to be a trifle eczematous and of a fixed quality.

Nevertheless, though she tossed her head a little as she took up her "work" and swished out of the great heavy door--which David opened--she was pleased to think that Michael cared for her complexion and was solicitous about her rest.
And Vivie's eyes swam a little as she thought about the death of Mark Stansfield, and the genuine tears that flowed down the cheeks of his pupils when they learnt one raw February morning from the housekeeper of his chambers that he had died at daybreak.