Her friend accompanies her to the gate, hatless, and having got rid of the children by a slight gesture of dismissal, instantly obeyed, despite the bite of February’s still bitter tooth, that makes the winter aconites in the grass sink their round yellow heads chillily into their green capes, she loiters even when the limit of the Rectory demesne is reached; and Lavinia knows that she has something difficult of utterance to say to her. “Has Sir George spoken to you about your marriage lately?” “About my marriage?” “Yes, anything as to the desirability of its coming off sooner on account of--what has happened?” “On account of poor Bill’s death, do you mean?”--looking blank and mystified. “No; why should he? What difference can that make?” “You see that Rupert is the only one left now,” replies Mrs. Darcy, gently, but in a rather embarrassed tone; “the only one to keep up the old name--to prevent its dying out.” Her companion is silent, staring at the humpy winter aconites with a vague feeling that they have grown into unfamiliar blossoms; that the gate-post is strange too, and the mud in the road, and the rectoress’s expressive pale face. “I think he means to broach the subject to you before long,” continues the latter, looking away from the person whom she is addressing, and speaking with a tentative delicacy; “so I thought it best that you should not be taken unawares when he does. I must be off. There is Richard signalling madly, and saying something quite _lay_ about my unpunctuality.” She runs off nodding; and Lavinia, much more slowly, takes her way home through the churchyard.