“Why, of course not!” she said. “I think you did a very friendly thing in telling me. I am most grateful to you. But I think we three had better talk it over.”
Mrs. Owen released her hands from the prayerful attitude, and shook them impatiently in the air.
“Oh! how I, my Ego, myself, disagree with what I believe to be the wisest course,” she said. “Moral geography, was it not a delicious expression of your wife’s, Mr. Grainger? We must remember we are in Mannington. How narrow and stupid it all seems to me now while I sit quietly smoking here with you.”
At this moment a huge ember of burning matter dropped from Mrs. Owen’s cigarette on to her dress, and the quiet smoke was interrupted for a moment. The contrast between Edith, the woman of the world, and all her quiet simplicity, with the woman who only succeeded in being worldly, was wonderfully marked. One was quiet and kind, the other was fussy and full of monkey-plans. Between them sat Hugh, angry and young.
“Oh, I have been having a talk about the same subject!” he said. “Do you think this storm in—in a scullery is worth discussion. I have already said exactly what I thought about it.”
Edith frowned, then laughed.
“Dear Hugh,” she said, “you must remember that we are in the scullery ourselves, and that I am the kitchen-maid who has prepared a dish which isn’t fit to be eaten. I see that now; I should have seen it all along.”
Again Mrs. Owen waved her slim, long-fingered hands in protest.
“Ah, Mrs. Grainger, how naughty you are!” she cried. “It is not the dish that is not fit, it is the diners who are not fit. That is my view.”