“In plain words, Hugh,” she said, “the paper of mine about the Nelson letters clearly won’t do. Your sister has a feeling against it, so has Canon Alington, and Mrs. Owen agrees as regards the inexpediency of reading it to the Literific.”
“Under protest—oh, such protest!” she cried.
“Yes. And now that it is so kindly pointed out to us by Mrs. Owen, we have to consider what to do next.”
“Oh, I have pronounced on that!” said Hugh. “You and I are clearly not up to the mark of the Literific, and we must retire. But we must tell Peggy.”
Mrs. Owen clapped her hands.
“How I should love to see Lady Rye’s face when she is told!” she said, in a little ecstatic aside. “What a laugh we should all have!”
Hugh, in the midst of his irritation, let the eyelid of the eye away from Mrs. Owen just quiver, as if it said, “No, you don’t!”
“Oh, Hugh, be serious!” said his wife. “As if we could do that, like huffy children. Now we are keeping Mrs. Owen——”
Mrs. Owen made so vigorous a gesture of dissent, that the flowers in her hat swayed as if a squall had passed over them. Hugh got up.
“But the matter is settled,” he said. “I have sent in our resignation; at least, I’ve practically done so.”