Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

Mary came to the old country by way of Melhurst village, and she drove through Melhurst Park. Her cherry-coloured car overtook the memory of the blue wagon and the two grey horses moving slowly over the green billows of the park. The same trees were there, the same deer, the same brown beech leaves of another year flickering hither and thither as the wind stirred them. She pulled up and got out, and sat on the grass verge, with the hood-cover between her and the damp turf, and in renewing a memory she opened an inward door. How that man hated her! And did he also despise her? And if so--why should she mind? What did it matter to Mrs. Fream of Hill House, the admirably appointed Mrs. Fream who was showing a nice sentiment in the matter of "Green Shutters." She had presented to herself the house of her parents as a public memorial to her conscience. She was about to visit it, and spend an hour or two in it with a dutiful duster, and an appreciation of her own sensibilities. She would drive up to Carslake cemetery and place flowers on the graves.

She was a woman of the world. For the space of nearly three years she had been insisting upon herself as a woman of the world, and she believed in herself as Mrs. Fream of Hill House. She had developed tact. She had distinguished herself as a hostess. She knew exactly how things should be done, how servants should be treated, the right voice in which to give orders to a chauffeur, how to cast a pleasant atmosphere over a tea-table on the terrace of the Hills Club. Her personal appointments were exquisite. She came soft and rosy from her bath each morning. Pollock dressed her hair and her person, and manicured her finger-nails. She was very complete, and was convinced of her own completeness. If she gave way to sensibility--well--a woman of the world might be allowed to know how to feel.