“Well, let’s have him here.”
“You could have him here if you like, of course,” said Edmund merrily. “He won’t actually deafen you with the crash of falling H’s, and he won’t get puzzled among the forks on the dinner table. But I’ve told you—he’s not what you and I call a gentleman. And unfortunately he’s what they call, I believe, a convinced Nonconformist.”
I looked at Edmund, but he was perfectly serious.
To me it was as though I had been told that Odysseus had been a homœopath.
“If he doesn’t mind being the guest of the Established Church I expect we’ll get on very well. I’m not exactly bigoted on doctrinal points.”
“No. But I’m wondering how Bates would stick him?”
“Really, Edmund, I know I spoil Bates, and so do you when you’re here, but I have not got the length of allowing him to choose my guests.”
“Well, old Welfare will enjoy it. As a matter of fact he’ll be enormously flattered. He’ll take you for a sort of ‘swell,’ to use his own language. And he’ll be tremendously interested in that underground passage.”
“Why?” I queried, in surprise.
If this were a play or a novel I suppose the stage direction would be that “Edmund bit his lip.” Of course he didn’t do anything of the sort. I don’t suppose any sane human being ever did, though I have myself bitten my tongue accidentally. I did however get an impression that Edmund somehow felt he had committed an indiscretion, which I suppose is what the novelists and playwrights mean. He went on a little embarrassed.