In London Clarissa met Lady Laura Armstrong; for the first time since
that September afternoon in which she had promised that no arts of George
Fairfax's should move her to listen to him. Lord Calderwood had been dead a
year and a half, and my lady was resplendent once more, and giving weekly
receptions in Mr. Armstrong's great house in Portland-place--a corner
house, with about a quarter of a mile of drawing-rooms, stretching back
into one of the lateral streets. For Mr. and Mrs. Granger she gave a
special dinner, with an evening party afterwards; and she took up a good
deal of Clarissa's time by friendly morning calls, and affectionate
insistance upon Mrs. Granger's company in her afternoon drives, and at her
daily kettle-drums--drives and kettle-drums from which Miss Granger felt
herself more or less excluded.
It was during one of these airings, when they had left the crowd and
splendour of the Park, and were driving to Roehampton, that Clarissa heard
the name of George Fairfax once more. Until this afternoon, by some strange
accident as it seemed, Lady Laura had never mentioned her sister's lover.
"I suppose you heard that it was all broken off?" she said, rather
abruptly, and apropos to nothing particular.
"Broken off, Lady Laura?"
"I mean Geraldine's engagement. People are so fond of talking about those
things; you must have heard, surely, Clary."
"No, indeed, I have heard nothing.
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