I’ve been to Stratford-on-Avon (I must tell you all about that one of these days), and there I got a letter from my sister-in-law, a dear kind goose who likes interfering with other people’s children because she’s got none of her own. (We're dreadfully afraid that she’s going to lose the sight of one of her eyes, and I always feel that our physical ailments are so apt to turn into mental ailments. I think Matthew Arnold says something of the same kind about Lord Byron.) But that’s neither here nor there.”
The effect of these parentheses, whether they were introduced for that purpose or represented a natural instinct on Mrs. Hilbery’s part to embellish the bareness of her discourse, gave Ralph time to perceive that she possessed all the facts of their situation and was come, somehow, in the capacity of ambassador.
“I didn’t come here to talk about Lord Byron,” Mrs. Hilbery continued, with a little laugh, “though I know that both you and Katharine, unlike other young people of your generation, still find him worth reading.” She paused. “I’m so glad you’ve made Katharine read poetry, Mr. Denham!” she exclaimed, “and feel poetry, and look poetry! She can’t talk it yet, but she will—oh, she will!”
Ralph, whose hand was grasped and whose tongue almost refused to articulate, somehow contrived to say that there were moments when he felt hopeless, utterly hopeless, though he gave no reason for this statement on his part.
“But you care for her?” Mrs. Hilbery inquired.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, with a vehemence which admitted of no question.
“It’s the Church of England service you both object to?” Mrs. Hilbery inquired innocently.
“I don’t care a damn what service it is,” Ralph replied.
