Mrs. Owen was absorbed. The inner life of these distinguished persons was being turned inside out before her eyes. She was as fascinated in it as a child is in the internal mechanism of a watch. And though she looked on, she, too, was of it; she was concerned in their wheels and cogs.
“Yes, but we’ve got to think of something else,” she said quietly. “I have promised to read a paper, and the one I have written clearly won’t do, so I must do my best before Friday to write another.”
Then she turned to Mrs. Owen.
“You are so kind,” she said, “that I am sure I may ask you to tell either Canon Alington or his wife that I quite see their point of view, and I will anyhow read them something. If that is not giving you too much trouble, it would be most good of you to undertake it. I don’t want to see him myself about it, because it would be much better to avoid any possibility of discussion between us, whereas he has already consulted you. And since my husband does not entirely feel with me on the subject, it is best that he should not be the intermediary. And will you say also that by to-morrow night I will send him the subject of it, so that the notices can go out early next day. My sister, Lady Rye, comes down to-morrow, and if we can’t think of anything to-night, I am sure she will be able to. And I need hardly say that I don’t want the whole thing to go any further. It would be tiresome to know that Mannington was talking about it all.”
The words were quite courteous and sincere, but they had the note of finality about them, as Edith had intended, and produced the effect of making Mrs. Owen get up, for Edith did not propose, since Hugh was so clearly “on edge,” to sit and discuss it any further.
“It will be a pleasure,” said Mrs. Owen with perfect truth, “and I will catch him after church. And may I take your paper with me, as you so kindly let me read it? Is it typewritten or in manuscript? I hope manuscript—I am so psychical, and manuscript would convey so much more to me.”
“Hugh, would you please get it for Mrs. Owen?” she asked. “It is on my table. I am afraid it is typewritten.”
Hugh could not resist one more shot at his brother-in-law.
“And you might tell Canon Alington that he must avoid the next number of the Nineteenth Century like poison,” he said, “because my wife’s paper appears in it. He might give a few words of warning in church!”