He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. Manning, in his entirely different dialect, indorsed her brother Roddy’s view of things. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. Charcoal. She had nothing to say for herself. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly.
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