The Reverend Pontifex, anxious to make a favourable impression, was all smiles and bows. The idea of a possible scandal had for the moment ceased to worry him.
“The honour is ours,” he stammered. “I—er—we—er—my sister Jane and I called to—”
“Won't you sit down?” said Mrs. Rossmore, waving him to a chair. He danced around her in a manner that made her nervous.
“Thank you so much,” he said with a smile that was meant to be amiable. He took a seat at the further end of the room and an awkward pause followed. Finally his sister prompted him:
“You wanted to see Mrs. Rossmore about the festival,” she said.
“Oh, of course, I had quite forgotten. How stupid of me. The fact is, Mrs. Rossmore,” he went on, “we are thinking of giving a festival next week—a festival with strawberries—and our trustees thought, in fact it occurred to me also that if you and Mr. Rossmore would grace the occasion with your presence it would give us an opportunity—so to speak—get better acquainted, and er—”
Another awkward pause followed during which he sought inspiration by gazing fixedly in the fireplace. Then turning on Mrs. Rossmore so suddenly that the poor woman nearly jumped out of her chair he asked:
“Do you like strawberries?”
“It's very kind of you,” interrupted Mrs. Rossmore, glad of the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. “Indeed, I appreciate your kindness most keenly but my husband and I go nowhere, nowhere at all. You see we have met with reverses and—”