“Do come and see the Michaelmas daisies at the end of the garden,” said Mr. "Take him to the bilbowes. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. I had been about as foolish and selfish as a girl could be. You couldn’t help it. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. That was what she was trying to make him understand.
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