“Oh, Mrs. Owen,” he said, “papa skated better than anybody at Davos! I used to watch him rather than skate myself. And wasn’t it a shame——”
Canon Alington interrupted his son. It was better that the disclosure should come from himself.
“But the Olympians would have none of me,” he said. “Hugh passed, Lady Rye passed, even Daisy passed. But Ambrose and I were the poor relations. Ha, ha! I don’t think that it damages us. We skate still. Davos is rather a cliquey place. Given a return of good old English winters, I can see Mannington rivalling any Swiss resort. Once back and forward, and forward inside, eh, Ambrose?”
Mrs. Owen wrung her hands. It was in the manner of a peal of bells that she did this. She pulled all the fingers in turn.
“I shall never, never forget seeing you skate, Canon Alington,” she said. “So swift, so commanding! And does Mr. Hugh skate well, too?”
“The makings of a skater,” said the Canon. “He wants perhaps a little more coaching. Freedom—perhaps a little freedom is lacking.”
“I thought he didn’t skate nearly so well as papa,” said Ambrose shrilly. “I thought nobody skated so well as papa.”
The door underneath the motto “They sat down to eat and drink” opened, and Hugh, supposed to be at Davos, came in.
“I apologise,” he said, “but I found they hadn’t received my telegram at Chalkpits, and there was nothing to eat. I wanted something. How are you, Agnes? Do give me some cold beef.”
He made his salutations.