“You say you are going to see your mother at tea-time,” she said. “Very well, tell her what I have said.”
Jack was discreet, but not provident.
“I am sure she will agree with you,” he admitted, eagerly.
“In that case,” said Miss Fortescue, “it is her duty to use her influence with your father to get these things remedied.”
Jeannie laughed.
“Give it up, Mr. Collingwood,” she advised. “It’s no use. We always give it up when Aunt Em feels strongly at church on Sundays. You will, too, when you know her better.”
There were several people at tea when Jack came into his mother’s drawing-room, and when he entered he saw that they had been talking on some point which concerned him, for there was a lull in the conversation, and yet every one looked interested and rather eager, which showed that the conversation had been suddenly broken off. Mrs. Vernon, the gushing wife of another canon, more distinguished for a vague æsthetic loquacity than for tact, appealed to him at once.
“We were talking about your picture of Miss Avesham,” she said. “I maintain—and do agree with me, Mr. Collingwood—that it is not the function of art to be photographic. You have seized, it is true, a moment (oh, such a dear, delicious moment!), but you have given us, have you not, what I called the story of the moment?”
Jack looked a little puzzled.
“I don’t quite understand,” he said.