CHAPTER XXXVII
Alwynne's visit had been prolonged in turn by Alicia, Jean and Roger; and Elsbeth had acquiesced—her sedate letters never betrayed how eagerly—in each delay.
Alicia was flatteringly in need of her help for the Easter church decorations, and how could Alwynne refuse? Jean was in the thick of preparations for the bazaar: Alwynne's quick wits and clever fingers were not to be dispensed with. Alwynne wondered what Clare would say to her interest in a bazaar and a mothers' meeting, and was a little nervous that it would be considered anything but a reasonable excuse for yet another delay. Clare's letters were getting impatient—Clare was wanting her back. Clare was finding her holidays dull. Yet Alwynne, longing to return to her, was persuaded to linger—for a bazaar—a village bazaar! That a bazaar of all things should tempt Alwynne from Clare! She felt the absurdity of it as fully as ever Clare could do. Yet she stayed. After all, The Dears had been very good to her.... She should be glad to make some small return by being useful when she could....
And Alwynne was pleasantly conscious that she was uncommonly useful. A fair is a many-sided gaiety. There are tableaux—Alwynne's suggestions were invaluable. Side-shows—Alwynne, in a witch's hat, told the entire village its fortunes with precision and point. Alwynne's well-drilled school-babies were pretty enough in their country dances and nursery rhymes; and the stall draperies were a credit to Alwynne's taste. Alwynne's posters lined the walls; and her lightning portraits—fourpence each, married couples sixpence—were the success of the evening. The village notabilities were congratulatory: The Dears beamed: it was all very pleasant.
Her pleasure in her own popularity was innocent enough. Nevertheless she glanced uneasily in the direction of Roger Lumsden more than once during the evening. He was very big and busy in his corner helping his aunts, but she felt herself under observation. She had an odd idea that he was amused at her. She thought he might have enquired if she needed help during the long evening, when the little Parish Hall was grown crowded. Once, indeed, she signed to him across the room to come and talk to her, but he laughed and shook his head, and turned again to an old mother, absorbed in a pile of flannel petticoats. Alwynne was not pleased.
But when the sale had come to its triumphant end, and the stall-holders stood about in little groups, counting coppers and comparing gains—it was Roger who discovered Alwynne, laughing a trifle mechanically at the jokes of the ancient rector, and came to her rescue.
She found herself in the cool outer air, hat and scarf miraculously in place.
"Jean and Alicia are driving, they won't be long after us. I thought you'd rather walk. That room was a furnace," said Roger, with solicitude.