“I wonder if environment has much to do with one’s getting rusty or old-fashioned?” she said. “I really think the rust and the old-fashionedness begin from within.”
Mrs. Owen clasped her hands together.
“Oh, but how responsible you make me feel,” she said. “I know how rusty and old-fashioned I often get, and you think it is my fault.”
Canon Alington rose at this with a sort of clerical gallantry.
“Well, well, we learn something new every day!” he ejaculated. “I have learned, from her own lips, too, that Mrs. Owen is rusty!”
Mrs. Owen nearly said “Naughty man!” but rejected this natural impulse, as not being quite in tune with the impression she wished to make.
“Ah, but it is true!” she said. “One’s own consciousness is the only judge in these matters. If I accuse myself of being rusty I am rusty. The intellect is its own tribunal. I forget who said that, but you know, I am sure, Mrs. Grainger.”
Mrs. Grainger had not the slightest idea; she felt, too, that she had very little notion what Mrs. Owen was talking about. It was as if she desired to shine, but could not quite manage to light a match. She struck, and rubbed, and struck, but it did not flame. The other part of the squadron, however, tea being over, began manœuvring, and Canon Alington, with a horrified glance at his watch, saw he must be getting back for evening service. He was, with a view to manœuvre, going to suggest to Hugh, that he should accompany him, when Hugh made the suggestion himself, saying he wanted a walk. Then, of course, it remained for Mrs. Owen to be unable to tear herself away just yet, and, behold, they were in fighting line.
Canon Alington and Hugh set off briskly, and the former opened fire at once.
“I am glad to have this opportunity of talking to you, Hugh,” he said, “because I have something to say to you. I want—Agnes and I both want, and indeed Mrs. Owen also wants—your coöperation and help.”