Yet withal, such was our
restraint, that we talked of her still as one much misguided, as
one who burthened us with anxiety, as a lamb astray, and Mrs.
Milton having eaten, continued to show the finest feelings on the
matter.
She sat, I may mention, in the cushioned basket-chair, the only
comfortable chair in the room, and we sat on incredibly hard,
horsehair things having antimacassars tied to their backs by
means of lemon-coloured bows. It was different from those dear
old talks at Surbiton, somehow. She sat facing the window, which
was open (the night was so tranquil and warm), and the dim light-
-for we did not use the lamp--suited her admirably. She talked in
a voice that told you she was tired, and she seemed inclined to
state a case against herself in the matter of "A Soul
Untrammelled." It was such an evening as might live in a
sympathetic memoir, but it was a little dull while it lasted.
"I feel," she said, "that I am to blame. I have Developed. That
first book of mine--I do not go back upon a word of it, mind, but
it has been misunderstood, misapplied."
"It has," said Widgery, trying to look so deeply sympathetic as
to be visible in the dark. "Deliberately misunderstood."
"Don't say that," said the lady. "Not deliberately. I try and
think that critics are honest. After their lights. I was not
thinking of critics. But she--I mean--" She paused, an
interrogation.
"It is possible," said Dangle, scrutinising his sticking-plaster.
"I write a book and state a case.
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