Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

Her Eve's knowledge remained with her, and she carried it back with her to Hill House, and suffered it to have its way with her and to ferment like sweet wine. Her curiosity had remained unsatisfied. She had her own emotional picture of the man who had been her lover, yet not so wholly her lover as he might have been, or could be--No, not that, not utterly that! She divined a closed door, and behind it a resolute hostility. But what sort of hostility? She did not think that he hated her; she had never thought so even when she was exclaiming over his hatred, and counting it as homage. He was refusing to be her friend, just a sentimental friend--of course, for though she went nicely shod upon the adventure she wore the shoes of convention. That she was loitering irresponsibly outside a closed door and daring herself to open it she would have strenuously denied. She was Mrs. Fream of Hill House, a conspicuous and responsible young woman; she had a husband and a hospital fête on her hands; she was neither bold-faced nor sly. But like many excellent women she thought that she might allow herself to be sentimental, and to throw the flower of her sentiment at an old lover, and avert her head nicely, and perhaps allow him to touch her hand. "Poor Arnold; I'm so sorry." And she was to be sorrier than she knew, disastrously sorry, and to be smothered in reality instead of in a little syrupy mess of make-believe.

Her grandee came back from his fishing, and she gave him but little attention. "Much better, my dear, thanks"--and she accepted the statement without scrutiny. Life was proving somewhat pleasant. She presided over the Amusements Sub-commitee, and agreed with the decision of the full committee that the fête should be held on June 18, when the grass in the park might be expected to have become hay. O, yes, that could be arranged. Hill House had no need of hay; the grass could be cut and carted away any time in June. Some small man might be glad of it. But--hay? If there was a hay harvest in Surrey, there would be a hay harvest in Sussex! Suggestive thought! She allowed it to penetrate her, to possess her, to perfume her magnanimity; it became a germinating sentiment, a sensitive provocation. Poor Arnold had been her father's friend. He should be hers. Forgive and forget. But do not forget completely. Let there be a swift, secret backward glance; a little secure and romantic remembering. Charming Mrs. Fream! She wished to appear charming to her farmer.