No one could have been more tender, more
sympathetic, more exactly right about young Stephen's death. He had become,
during those weeks almost a necessity. He seemed to have no particular
interest of his own in life. He dressed very perfectly, he went to a number
of parties, he had delightful little gatherings in his own flat, but, with
it all, he was something more--a great deal more--than the mere society
idler. There was a hint at possible wildness, an almost sinister suggestion
of possible lawlessness that made him infinitely attractive. He was such
good company and yet one felt that one didn't know nearly the whole of him.
To Peter he was the most wonderful thing in the world, to Clare he was
rapidly becoming so--no wonder then that the Roundabout saw him so often.
IV
It would need a very acute perception indeed to pursue precisely the train
of cause and effect in Mrs. Rossiter's mind after young Stephen's death.
Her black garments added, in the most astonishing fashion, to her placid
flatness. If she had gloried before in an armour that was so negative that
it became instantly exceedingly dangerous, her appearance now was
terrifying beyond all words. Her black silk had apparently no creases, no
folds--it almost eliminated terms and boundaries. Mrs. Rossiter could not
now be said to come into a room--she was simply there.
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