Mrs. Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs. Pipkin and John Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to Bungay and grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any love for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to witness a phase of English life, as from an irresistible tenderness towards Paul Montague. She not only longed to see him once again, but she could with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which he was living. There was no hope for her. She was sure of that. She had consented to relinquish him. She had condoned his treachery to her,--and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken her place. But still she lingered near him. And then, though, in all her very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met, she never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a return to her own country. In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat stupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the rough tempests of her past days. Mrs. Pipkin, she thought, was less intellectual than any American woman she had ever known; and she was quite sure that no human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable of two concurrent ideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in the United States;--but, nevertheless, she liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almost loved John Crumb. 
Mrs. Hurtle had postponed her journey to New York to go to Bungay for the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any love for the persons concerned, as from an irresistible tenderness towards Paul Montague. She longed to see him once again, and found it difficult to leave the land in which he was living. She knew there was no hope for her. She had relinquished him. But still she lingered near him. And in her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat stupid tranquillity of life in England compared to the rough tempests of her past days. She even liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almost loved John Crumb. 