The Woman in the Bazaar

								

appeared and all he conceived her to be--a sweet and simple creature,
his ideal of a bride.
His instinct was not wrong. The vicar's daughter was a sweet and simple
creature, oblivious, if not wholly ignorant, of evil--and of much
besides. She made her own clothes, frequently she cleaned her own and
her father's boots; she had driven in no vehicle more exalted than the
village fly, had ridden nothing better than a donkey or a bicycle, had
attended no entertainment more exciting than a local tea party or a
penny reading. It was sinful, she thought, to powder one's nose, or to
wear shoes with high heels, or to cut one's hair in a fringe--then a
fashion that still was in favour. Her hats were kept on with elastic,
and she seldom looked long at herself in the glass.
On the day of her sale, however, she looked at her reflection in the
mirror rather more attentively than usual, just to make certain that her
hair was as tidy as troublesome curls and waves would permit, that
primrose soap and hot water had effectively cleaned her face after her
busy morning, that her plain straw hat, bound by a white ribbon, and her
linen collar were straight. She felt a trifle guilty because she desired
to look her best, an ambition that was somehow entangled, quite
unaccountably, with the prospect of meeting Captain Coventry again. She
had never met anyone quite like Captain Coventry; he was so handsome and
he seemed to be so nice. She looked forward with an odd and unwonted
agitation to his arrival. She hoped, though she was teased by a slight
suspicion to the contrary, that he was a good man, that he was a
teetotaller, and did not smoke or play cards.
Then she went down into the garden, and became too deeply engrossed in
the arrangement of her stall, and in consultations with early
arrivals--the doctor's wife and the wives of one or two prominent
farmers--as to the prices of their contributions, and at what time tea
ought to be ready, and so forth, to concern herself further over his
possible vices. She also forgot to consider his character when he drove
up in a hired wagonette with his mother, a gracious old lady in black
silk and a shawl, and his sister, a colourless person in a dust cloak,
who might have been equally thirty or forty years of age. Rafella could
think of nothing at the moment but the disturbing expression in Captain
Coventry's eyes as he grasped her hand in greeting, his strong, brown
face, his crisp moustache.
Further arrivals confused her, the schoolmaster and his family, parties
of villagers, contingents from neighbouring parishes; she mixed up their
names, could not confine her attention to their polite remarks; her
usual calm self-assurance had fled, everything seemed curiously changed
and unreal.
Coventry at once assumed the office of her chief assistant, and proved
himself a valuable salesman. The women were attracted by his friendly
manners and his good looks, the men were interested in his being a real