Mr. Ingleby wanted to know why he was so late. “I read a paper at the Literary Society,” he said, “and then went back to Alvaston with a man named Boyce. He’s a son of Arthur Boyce.”
“The auctioneer?” asked Mr. Ingleby.
“No . . . the poet.”
Mr. Ingleby’s features showed a faint anxiety, as though he doubted if such an influence were healthy. “Well, I hope your paper was a success,” he said.
“Oh, I think it went all right. Any letters?”
“Yes . . . two. Here they are.” He handed them to Edwin.
One of them was the invitation from Mawne. He showed it to his father.
“A dance—” said Mr. Ingleby.
“Yes. . . . I suppose I’d better go.”
“Your Aunt Laura told me about it. If it won’t interfere with your work, I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”