Clara Dawtrey was professing herself delighted with the lecture in loud tones, intended to reach the ear of the lecturer. But she saw to her annoyance that he was paying no attention to her. He had stepped from the platform and, having shaken hands with Miss Lorraine and received her congratulations, he was leaning across a bench to talk to her niece.
Aldyth's face still wore the glow of excitement. She was looking her best at that moment, when her face was radiant with spiritual light.
Clara saw the beauty, and it vexed her. She could have given no good reason for disliking Aldyth, but dislike her she did. Perhaps she was dimly conscious of the contrast that Aldyth in her simplicity and refinement presented to herself. Perhaps it was because Aldyth belonged to a different set—for the society of Woodham, like that of most little country towns, was composed of several cliques—and she suspected her of looking down upon herself. But she had no cause to think so of Aldyth. Kitty and Hilda Bland had not always been careful to veil their scorn of Clara Dawtrey's vulgarity and fastness; but Aldyth invariably treated the girl withe faultless though distant courtesy.
It annoyed Clara that Mr. Glynne should stand talking to Aldyth for some minutes.
"It is easy to see that Miss Aldyth Lorraine means to be Mr. Glynne's pet pupil," she observed to a young man with whom she was talking. "I write papers? No, thank you. I have no wish to compete with Miss Aldyth Lorraine."
Mr. Greenwood had invited Mr. Glynne to sup at his house after the lecture,—suppers, and not late dinners, were the fashion at Woodham. Mrs. Greenwood, who had no daughter, was pressing Miss Lorraine to come with Aldyth and make the supper more cheerful. Miss Lorraine yielded to her persuasions, so Clara Dawtrey, lingering about the hall to the last, had the chagrin of seeing Aldyth walk down the High Street to the banker's house accompanied by John Glynne, who sheltered her with his umbrella from the slight shower that was falling.
"Mr. Glynne," said Aldyth, as they walked together, "I am so glad you said what you did about poetry to-night. So many persons have the idea that poetry renders us dreamy and unpractical. Even my aunt, though, as you know, she is no enemy to culture, talks in that way sometimes. And Mrs. Bland vexes Hilda by trying to check her love of poetry; she seems to think it makes her sentimental and idle. And really Hilda is rather—"
Aldyth broke off suddenly. Loyalty to her friend seemed to forbid her to speak of her defects.
"I am glad you think I spoke to the point," said John Glynne, without appearing to observe Aldyth's abrupt pause. "Perhaps it is my mission here to teach some of my hearers the right use of poetry. Like every other blessing, it may be misused. It is the wine of life; but we may let it strengthen only our selfishness and vanity. There is always danger to the reflective mind of becoming absorbed in abstractions and notions which are never made fruitful—in a word, of cherishing sentimentality instead of true sentiments."
"That is it," said Aldyth, eagerly; "you have expressed what I have often thought."