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Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. He shall have the estates. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. “She is marvellously clever,” he said. "I can't say I do," replied Wood. She was nestled under his bedspread. 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. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. ’ ‘In a way she had been,’ said Prudence. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move.
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