Lady Augusta was indeed of the world of Victoria and Disraeli, opulent, pushing, loud; Mrs. Trupp of an older, finer, more deliberate age. There was between the temper and tradition of the two ladies a gulf no convention could bridge. Lady Augusta felt and resented the fact.
Archdeacon Willcocks, on the other hand, reacted to the same stimulus in a different way. For him the fact that Mrs. Trupp was a Moray of Pole was paramount. And so—when Mr. Trupp had become famous—he hushed up his wife and schemed to run Mrs. Trupp's home in connection with the Diocesan Magdalen League.
But Mrs. Trupp was not to be cajoled. She had her own way of doing things, and meant to stick to it.
"I think perhaps we'd better go on working for the same end in our rather different ways," she told the Archdeacon with that disarming courtesy of hers.
"Am I to understand that our way is not the Christian way?" asked the Archdeacon, smiling and satirical according to his wont, as he swayed his long thin body to and fro, serpent-wise.
"It may be," replied the lady, faintly ironical in her turn. "It's not quite mine."
"Pity," said the Archdeacon, mounting his favourite high horse with the little toss of his head, carefully cultivated, which so impressed the shop-keepers of Old Town. "I had hoped that you remained of the Faith, even if you have seen good to desert your Church."
The lady looked at him with eyes that were a little wistful, a little whimsical.
"I'm afraid we're mutually disappointed," she answered quietly.