igo The Real Charlotte. 



others. She was accustomed to making herself useful, and 

 it did not occur to her to shut herself up in her room, or go 

 for a walk, or, in fact, isolate herself with her troubles in 

 any way. She had too little self-consciousness for these 

 deliberate methods, and she moved among the currant 

 bushes in her blue gown, and was merely uncomplainingly 

 thankful that she was able to pull the broad leaf of her hat 

 down so as to hide the eyes that were heavy from a sleepless 

 night and red from the sting of tears. She went over again 

 what Lambert had told her, as she mechanically dropped 

 the currants into her tin can ; the soldier-servant had read 

 the letters, and had told Michael, the Rosemount groom, 

 and Michael had told Mr. Lambert. She wouldn't have 

 cared a pin about his being engaged if he had only told her 

 so at first. She had flirted with engaged men plenty of times, 

 and it hadn't done anybody any harm, but this was quite 

 different. She couldn't believe, after the way he went on, 

 that he cared about another girl all the time, and yet 

 Michael had said that the soldier had said that they were 

 to be married at Christmas. Well, thank goodness, she 

 thought, with a half sob, she knew about it now ; he'd find 

 it hard to make a fool of her again. 



After the early dinner the practical part of the jam-making 

 began, and for an hour Francie snipped at the currant-tops 

 as industriously as Charlotte herself But by the time that 

 the first brew was ready for the preserving pan, the heat of 

 the kitchen, and the wearisomeness of Charlotte's endless 

 discussions with Norry, made intolerable the headache that 

 had all day hovered about her forehead, and she fetched 

 her hat and a book and went out into the garden to look 

 for coolness and distraction. She wandered up to the seat 

 where she had sat on the day that Lambert gave her the 

 bangle, and, sitting down, opened her book, a railway novel, 

 bought by Charlotte on her journey from Dublin. She 

 read its stodgily sensational pages with hot tired eyes, and 

 tried hard to forget her own unhappiness in the infinitely 

 more terrific woes of its heroine ; but now and then some 

 chance expression, or one of those terms of endearment 

 that were lavished throughout its pages, would leap up into 

 borrowed life and sincerity, and she would shut her eyes 

 and drift back into the golden haze on Lough Moyle, when 



