“Agnes and I do not think you need fear his rivalry,” said Canon Alington.
This was quite completely true. Hugh had not the faintest idea of rivalling her.
“Ah, but what an artist!” she said. “Yes, I remember about Tristan; but then let us agree to differ. Wagner, after all, you know! One has to make allowances for a great man. Think of Napoleon, of Nelson.”
There could not have been anything more apt. It seemed almost like an omen. Yet the idea of making allowances for great men was not promising. But as the plunge had to be made, Canon Alington felt that from here the header-board, so to speak, was not very high. He could slide, with tact, into the subject, without danger from abrupt transition.
“We have been thinking, both Agnes and I, a good deal about Nelson,” he said.
Mrs. Owen sank down with an air of indescribable interest, into the chair next him, touching her lower lip with the little finger of her left hand.
“It is best told in fewest words,” he said. “Mrs. Grainger, you may know, has promised—very kindly—to read us a paper at the June meeting of our Literific at the end of this week.”
Mrs. Owen took her little finger away from her mouth, and clasped with it the other fingers in her right hand. She put them all between her knees.
“And I am so looking forward to it,” she said.