“I am quite sure that you meant most kindly,” he said, sacrificing all vestige of truth—“but,” and he had to stop in order to control his voice, “but don’t you think it was rather a hasty conclusion? Thanks awfully, all the same. Thanks.”
And then he could no longer check himself. There came a breaking point. He turned his face to the wall and tried to bury it in his hands. But shrieks of laughter burst forth through the chinks in his fingers. He was very sorry about it; manners had again gone to the winds, but he was perfectly powerless. If people made such wonderful jokes what were you to do?
Then, after a moment, he controlled himself, and turned to the room again. But it was empty. So he sat down and laughed properly. The window was wide open, and as the steps of his visitors crunched over the gravel maniac yells and cries besieged their ears.
They were both rather red in the face, and they walked a little way without speech. Then Canon Alington spoke ex cathedrâ.
“I am deeply thankful,” he said, “that we have cleared it up”; and, with his usual tact, spoke at once of the decorations in the church for the festival of Easter. But still Hugh’s laughter came to them, and once Mrs. Owen, whose hearing was remarkably acute, thought she heard the shrill falsetto words, “Is she at Davos? Oh-h-h!”
And she had taken so much trouble to get intimate at Chalkpits. She felt it was all thrown away now. The conclusion was perfectly just, logical, irrefutable, all that conclusions ought to be. She determined that they should be “those Graingers.” What a pity, though! She felt sure that there was so much in common between them and her. Perhaps it was premature to think of them as “those Graingers” just yet. What a blessing, anyhow, that it had been Canon Alington who had been spokesman. He had really done it very stupidly. Perhaps with care it might only result in their being “those Alingtons.” And even before she had reached home her infinitesimal mind was as busy as a bee over infinitesimal intrigues.
Edith was under contract to telegraph to Hugh at least once a day, and to write as often as she felt inclined, and for the next week, with Peggy and Daisy in the house, the days, lacking the presence that made days perfect, came as near to perfection as might be. Telegrams came with more than daily frequency, and thoroughly satisfactory contents, and letters were daily also; not long very often, but always happy, always giving good accounts, and always bursting with satisfaction at the success of the writer’s diplomacy with regard to her birthday present to him.
The days were full of mirth also, for Peggy had taken the helpfulness of Mannington in the humorous spirit, and bade Hugh look at postmarks, to make certain that Edith was still at Davos. She had insisted also on the absurdity of there being any breach between St. Olaf’s and Chalkpits, and, with the sweeping good nature and inability to harbour resentment or malice which was so characteristic of her, had insisted on Hugh’s at once asking both Mr. and Mrs. Owen and the vicar and his wife to dinner, simultaneously, and she would hold herself responsible for the success of it.
“You’ve only got to be natural with people,” she said, “and they’ll be natural too.”
“Oh, but it’s natural to Mrs. Owen to be affected, and to Dick to be a prig,” said Hugh.