And that reminded him--he would write to Mrs. Meadows as well. He did
so, enquiring after her health, asking whether he could be of any
assistance, and promising to call again shortly. "Rather a formal
epistle," he concluded, on reading it through. He was unable to force
the note: he could never write or talk otherwise than he felt, and this
cousin, after all, was rather remote, self-centred, and difficult of
comprehension. "It must go as it is," he decided. "To be quite frank,
she's not exactly encouraging either. Asks such queer questions. What
on earth did she mean by that conundrum about illegitimacy, I wonder?"
Then luncheon; then a long sleep till tea-time. Everyone slept at this
hour during the days of sirocco-heat. What else was there to do? He had
already learned to look forward to that calm post-prandial hour of
slumber. One owes something to oneself, N'EST CE PAS? as Muhlen had
said.
On waking he bethought him of an invitation to tea with Madame
Steynlin. He would have listened gladly to her music and her
instructive and charitable talk about Nepenthe and its inhabitants.
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