“In that case, seeing that you have the advantage of me, and that there’s no one here to introduce us en règle—you might—er—”
Voices in the hall, and the shutting of doors proclaiming the arrival of somebody, interrupted her.
“Well, how are you again, Mr Rowlands?” cried the rector cheerily. “I’m disgracefully late. This is Mr Turner, one of my colleagues,” he went on, introducing a broad-shouldered young man, shaven of countenance, and in clerical attire, who had come in with him.
The conversation at table was brisk and lively, and what especially struck the guest was the spontaneity and utter absence of constraint with which the girls chatted away—now keeping up a running fire of chaff among themselves or with their father, now poking fun at this or that local character. Then they would parenthesise an explanation for his benefit, endeavouring to sweep him into the fun: and succeeding—as though he were no stranger at all. It was delightful, he decided; and then, oh, horror!—a thought struck him which spoiled all. What if they were to turn the fire of their wit on to his own family, to start poking fun at the members of the same, in total ignorance of his own identity? He must really throw off this infernal pseudonym at the very earliest opportunity.
“How do you like Wandsborough, Mr Rowlands?” asked Margaret Ingelow, when they were seated at table.
“Oh, it seems a nice little place. One can go about as one likes, independently of everybody.”
Sophie spluttered at this.
“Why it’s the most gossipy place on earth, Mr Rowlands,” she said.
“I suppose so. Most small places are. But the coast scenery is very fine.”
“Isn’t it? And the beach, too. Have you been to the beach yet?”