“He has always been prevented hitherto,” said she, with dignity.
So I went, and it proved a most agreeable expedition. There were 200 girls in blue frocks and white aprons (the girl three from the end of the fifth row was decidedly pretty)—a nice lot of prize books—the Micklehams (Dolly in demure black), ourselves, and the matron. All went well. Dolly gave away the prizes; Mrs. Hilary and Archie made little speeches. Then the matron came to me. I was sitting modestly at the back of the platform, a little distance behind the others.
“Mr. Musgrave,” said the matron to me, “we’re so glad to see you here at last. Won’t you say a few words?”
“It would be a privilege,” I responded cordially, “but unhappily I have a sore throat.”
The matron (who was a most respectable woman) said, “Dear, dear!” but did not press the point. Evidently, however, she liked me, for when we went to have a cup of tea, she got me in a corner and began to tell me all about the work. It was extremely interesting. Then the matron observed:
“And what an angel Mrs. Musgrave is!”
“Well, I should hardly call her that,” said I, with a smile.
“Oh, you mustn’t depreciate her—you, of all men!” cried the matron, with a somewhat ponderous archness. “Really I envy you her constant society.”
“I assure you,” said I, “I see very little of her.”
“I beg your pardon?”