Helen, with the superficial fretfulness of an agony controlled, said to herself that nothing more like a bad water-colour landscape could be imagined; there were the unskilful blots of heavy foliage, the sleekly painted sky, and the sunny road was like the whiteness of the paper, picked out, for shadows, in niggling cobalt.

A stupid, bland, heartless day.
She walked along this road for several miles and left it to cross a crisp, grassy slope from where, standing still and turning to see, she looked down over all the country and saw, far away, the roofs of Merriston House.

She stood for a long time looking down at it, the hot wind ruffling her skirts and hair.

It was a heartless day and she herself felt heartless.

She felt herself as something silent, swift, and raging.