“I must go up and see the children,” said Aline, “before they go to bed. Every night they all sing a verse of ‘God save the King.’ Isn’t that darling of them?”
She omitted to state that this was a very recent practice, and perhaps she had better not have alluded to it at all, for the nursery windows were thrown wide open just above them, and, on the moment, the first few bars of the “Watch by the Rhine” came floating out in shrill childish trebles. It stopped quite suddenly and howls succeeded.
“I must run in,” said Aline. “Yes, darlings, Mummie is coming to you now,” she called out.
She hurried off; presently the howlings ceased, and the more orthodox strains were uplifted. It was ludicrous enough, but Helen felt it was just a shade uncomfortable also. She would have liked a clearer view of what was going on in poor Aline’s breast. She could have understood so well the frank admission of torn and shredded sympathies: what was harder to comprehend was this intense desire to appear wholly English. And Aline’s subsequent appearance and explanation did not really elucidate matters. As usual, when everything was not going precisely as she wished it, her eyes were bright and brimming.
“I must really get rid of the children’s nurse,” she said. “She scolded them for singing the ‘Watch by the Rhine,’ and called them horrid little Huns. You cannot expect children to know all that is going on.”
But again Helen found herself in some little perplexity of mind. Was Aline’s indignation with her children’s nurse entirely due to the fact of her having called them Huns? Or did the fact that she had, by implication, called the Germans “horrid Huns” have anything to do with it? She began to feel rather more interested in the analysis of Aline’s state of mind.
Though the party at dinner only consisted of the four of them, with the addition of the clergyman of the parish and his wife, who walked across the Park from the Rectory (Mrs. Tempest carrying her evening shoes in a whitey-brown paper parcel), there was a very elaborate menu, and both Sir Hermann and Aline continually showed their appreciation of the duties of territorial magnates.
Before the arrival of the guests Aline had explained to Lady Grote that the invitation had been sent and accepted before her telegram had arrived, and had further told her that Mrs. Tempest was a very well-connected woman, much as if Lady Grote was likely to consider it as a very extraordinary thing that she should be expected to sit next a mere parson. He was asked to shoot with Sir Hermann next day in place of Mr. Boyton, and Aline exhibited a great interest in the church decorations for the approaching harvest festival, promising fruit and flowers and, if she could find time, her own personal embellishment of the altar. She also repeatedly pressed on them both second helpings of the dishes, urging them to make a good dinner, and implying, as was perfectly true, that they did not usually find themselves in a position to eat so largely of rich and expensive food. Kind no doubt these intentions were, but there was mixed up in them a self-conscious knowledge of the kindness, and a condescension in bestowing it at all. Sir Hermann’s attitude was not less perfectly appropriate than hers, and after dinner, when his guest had been practically obliged to drink at least two more glasses of port than he wished, he insisted on his taking home with him another cigar, which he would be glad of to-morrow. The price of it was also mentioned.
A bridge-table was laid out in the drawing-room with two new packs of cards and sharpened pencils, and on the entry of the men Aline got up.
“Mrs. Tempest has been telling me,” she said, “that she much prefers to look on at Bridge than to play it, and that Mr. Tempest never plays for money. So shall the other four of us have a rubber? You sit and watch Lady Grote’s play, Mrs. Tempest, and you will, I am sure, learn something. And there’s a very comfortable chair for Mr. Tempest, and I daresay he hasn’t seen the evening paper yet. Shall we cut, Helen?”