“I gather then—am I wrong?—that you are trying to think of the best way out of the difficulty. Of course, if I—poor little me—could be of any assistance, however slight, I need hardly say——”
This was exactly what Canon Alington wanted. For in spite of the immense tact that Agnes often assured him that he possessed, he felt that Mrs. Owen had more. Besides, she saw and felt Mrs. Grainger’s point of view, which he did not. Indeed, he was rather afraid that if he conducted the interview there might be considerable danger of his moral indignation “carrying him away.”
“You can do everything, my dear lady,” he said. “You are the very person to talk to Mrs. Grainger about it, if you will be so kind, and tell her what you feel about it, what we all feel about it. You have tact; you are a woman of the world, broadminded, cosmopolitan——”
Mrs. Owen laughingly stopped her ears with her tapering finger-tips and gave a little melodious laugh. Her laugh was supposed to be like a peal of bells—fairy-bells, some said.
“Please, please!” she cried. “I am ready to sink into the earth!”
“And tell her, too,” continued Canon Alington, unable, now that the burden of diplomacy had been removed from him, to refrain from dictating the diplomacy of others, “tell her that you would eagerly go to hear the paper read, that you would be historically interested in it. How true! I myself am historically interested in it; so is Agnes, I am sure. Perhaps, however, you need not dwell on that. But to discuss it—poor Nelson!” he added, in a sudden flood of broadmindedness.
After this the mere adjustment of the movements of what Canon Alington called “our squadron” was easy, and it was soon settled that he and Mrs. Owen should call at Chalkpits this very afternoon, and that while Mrs. Owen was tactful to Edith, Canon Alington should put his view of the matter rather more forcibly before Hugh, in order to range him also on the side of the squadron. And though he was almost passionately fond of directing the affairs of others, it is but just to him to say that he had no great relish for this mission. However, as both the ladies agreed that he was clearly the right person to do it, he could not refuse; but he felt a little doubtful to what extent Hugh would recognise his authority.
Mrs. Owen, on the other hand, was thoroughly pleased with the task she had so readily undertaken, for though Edith’s relations with her had always been quite cordial, they had also been quite slight, and she felt that she had not made at Chalkpits the impression that she was accustomed to make in Mannington. Two women of the world—these were her most secret thoughts, and she hardly admitted them to herself, even when she was alone—ought to gravitate to each other in Mannington, where everybody almost was so very provincial. Even the dear Alingtons, though they appreciated her songs so much, she felt, especially when she had just returned from her month in London, were not quite of the calibre that was on an equality with the “set” she had lately been with—among whom was a viscount. She could not help feeling when she came back to Mannington that she was being a little thrown away here. But now a fresh prospect opened; this delicate mission, which she was confident she could manage tactfully and successfully, could hardly fail to bring her at once into closer relations with Edith and her husband, and it should indeed not be her fault (from omission or remissness, that is to say) if it did not ripen into intimacy. Then, indeed, life at Mannington would be a thing that even the “set” might envy; for none could be blind to the advantages of being hand-and-glove with the author of “Gambits” or of the dropping in to hear Hugh Grainger, who was already on the gramophone, sing some scene out of “Tristan” or “Lohengrin.” The wonderful Lady Rye, too, who swam in a firmament high above even the set, and was known to them only through fashionable intelligence in the daily papers or charity bazaars, was Edith’s sister. It was only natural that a further friendship would follow.
Both the Canon and she were somewhat occupied in their own thoughts as they walked across the meadows from St. Olaf to the Chalkpits, and Mrs. Owen’s daydreams grew brighter and more lifelike every moment. The most extreme possibilities rapidly assumed the guise of the probable. What if the Morning Post announced before long that Lady Rye was spending the Saturday till Monday with Mrs. Owen at Mannington! Things more unlikely had occurred. Or if Mrs. Owen was seen (looking charming) at the opera in Lady Rye’s box, when her brother-in-law sang Siegfried with such huge success! Or what if Mr. Hugh Grainger at some autumn concert sang the Galahad cycle (words and music by Gladys Owen) to an enraptured Queen’s Hall? But she would never, she was determined, however high was the ladder she might soon be climbing, drop the dear kind Alingtons. Indeed it would be through them really that she was brought into this prospective intimacy with the Graingers. She would always remember that, and continue singing Galahad to them just as before.
The “squadron” started the campaign itself at a slight disadvantage, for the day was very hot, and the walk up to Chalkpits had been hot also. And though high moral purpose was their motive power and should have put them at once in an unassailable position, it is a fact that people who are obviously hot are at a disadvantage in dealing with those who sit under trees or lie in hammocks and are cool. No amount of moral purpose alone will cancel the handicap of a perspiring forehead.