Canon Alington’s face was adamant.
“So were we all,” he said. “But she told Agnes the subject she proposed to read us, and Agnes, of course, felt it her duty to tell me. The subject is the lately-discovered letters of Lord Nelson. They are written—I needn’t say to whom they are written.”
There was a dead silence while the portentous news soaked into Mrs. Owen’s mind. She absorbed it; she survived it. Then she sat upright in her chair again—she had sunk down in it before—and spoke.
“Dear Canon Alington and Agnes,” she said, “perhaps I am going to shock you very much. But if this paper is read——”
“It shall not be read while I am secretary,” said Agnes.
“No, I understand that. But if it is read, I shall go to hear it. There! I have said it.”
Like Galahad, Canon Alington heard the sound of hymns from the nursery.
“I do not follow you,” he said, feeling that he would have to go to the Bishop.
“Ah, please be patient with me!” said Mrs. Owen. “As I said, I should go to hear it; but I know the lecture will never be heard. Nor should it. But—well, I think that one cannot expect that everybody should agree with everybody else. I feel sure that dear Mrs. Grainger sees no impropriety in her subject. She, no doubt, thinks of—of these dreadful letters—I make no doubt they are dreadful—as being only of historical interest. And one must judge of people’s actions by their motives.”
She paused, and put her hands up toward Canon Alington as if she was praying.