But things turned out unfortunately, for when Miss Unity and Pennie, in their best dresses, arrived on Friday evening at the deanery they were both shown into the drawing-room. There were a good many guests assembled, and two of the girls were there, but the first person who caught Pennie’s eye was the dean himself, standing on the rug, coffee-cup in hand, smiling and talking. She shrank into the background as much as she could, and sat down by Sabine Merridew in the shelter of a curtain, hoping that no one would notice her in this retired position.
And at first this seemed likely, for everyone had a great deal to say to each other, and there was a general buzz of conversation all over the room. Pennie soon grew secure enough to listen to what the dean was saying to Miss Unity, who had taken a seat near him. He stood before her with upraised finger, while she, fearful of losing a word, neglected her tea and refused any kind of food, gazing at him with rapt attention.
This missionary address at the Institute, he was telling her, was an idea of his own. He wanted to keep up the impression made by the bishop’s sermon. “That, my dear Miss Unity,” he said, “is our great difficulty—not so much to make the impression as to keep it up. To my mind, you know, that’s a harder matter than just to preach one eloquent sermon and go away. The bishop’s lighted the torch and we must keep it burning—keep it burning—”
“Sabine,” said Mrs Merridew, raising her voice, “has Penelope any cake?”
The dean caught the name at once.
“What!” he said, looking round, “is my old friend Miss Penelope there?”
The dreaded moment had come. How Pennie wished herself anywhere else!
“And how,” said the dean, gently stirring his coffee and preparing to be facetious—“how does that long job of needlework get on, Mrs Penelope?”
Did he mean Kettles’ clothes? Pennie wondered. How could he know?
“I’ve only just begun,” she answered nervously, twisting her hands together.