For the Fantodds, who lived at Mill House, were snobbish, and would rout out trade in your family-tree, even if the disease were hidden deep and forgotten at its roots; and not only rout it out, but sniff and snort over it. Colonel Bingham—I think I called him General before, but we will reduce him, for punishment, to the rank of Colonel—Colonel Bingham was an Army snob; a well-born, kindly, and handsome old gentleman, but still a snob. The Creeps were puffed up with pride; a drunken baronet who had married a cousin of Colonel Creeps acted in this family just as a grain of soda acts in a mass of dough, leavening the lump. The Smith-Jacksons, the Dorian-Grays (most unfortunate name, assumed in the seventies), the Prosser-Joneses all suffered from this perfectly superfluous disease.
The schoolroom, when they reached it, was having a last finishing touch put to the decorations by Miss Slimon; so, finding nothing to do, they returned to The Martens.
They were in that condition of mind that, going even for a short walk, dread would be ever present in their minds that on returning to the house they would find Garryowen "seized" and a bailiff sitting in the kitchen. This dread, which had something of pleasant excitement about it, this ever-present fear of danger, had drawn French, Mr. Dashwood, and the girl together again in a family party, a corporate body. Love, though he hovered over them, could not divide or disunite them till the adventure they were bound together in was completed.
They were united against a common enemy, so united that, by a process of telepathy, gloom affecting one would affect the rest: hilarity likewise. To-day at luncheon they were hilarious, as an offset to their gloominess at breakfast. A bottle of Pommery assisted their spirits; they drank confusion to Lewis and benightment to Mr. Giveen. They were fey.
The bazaar was to be declared open at half-past two by Mrs. Bingham, and at half-past two a long line of carriages stood in the roadway outside the red-brick school-house; the place inside was hot and stuffy, crammed with the élite of Crowsnest and smelling of glue, raw pine boards, and coffee. A huge coffee urn, with steam up, at the refreshment stall, spoke of the rustics who would invade the place at three o'clock, when the price of admission was to be lowered to sixpence, and answered with a cynical hissing the announcement of Mrs. Bingham that the bazaar was now open, and the little speech which that excellent lady had been preparing for three days and rehearsing all the morning.
Miss Grimshaw, whose place was at the fancy-work stall, and whose duty it was to assist Miss Slimon in the most nefarious, if undisguised, robbery of customers, found time in the midst of her duties to take in the doings of her neighbours. Bobby Dashwood was much in evidence, buying nothing, but officiating as an unsolicited and highly successful salesman, flirting with mature spinster stallholders, and seeming to enjoy his position immensely.
Miss Grimshaw noted with a touch of regret this flaw in his character, but she had not time to dwell upon it. The six-penny barrier was now down, and the place that had been full before was now all but packed. Farmers and their wives and daughters, cottagers, and humble folk permeated the crowd. Every now and then the throb of a motor-car coming to rest announced some fresh arrival from a distance. Mr. French was not there. He had said that he might look in later in the afternoon, but he had not yet arrived. It was now four o'clock, and the girl, half-dazed by the stuffy air of the place, the buzz of tongues, and the endeavour to make correct changes, was resting for a moment on a ledge of the stall, when a voice brought her to her senses and made her start to her feet.
"No, thank you, I don't want dolls," said the voice. "Sure, what would I be doing with dolls at my age? No, thank you, I don't smoke, and if I did I wouldn't do it in a smoking-cap. No, thanks; I just looked in to see what was going on. I'm strange to the place. I've only left Ireland the day before yesterday, and it's half moidthered I am still with me journey."
As a gazelle by the banks of the Zambesi starts from her couch of leaves at the voice of the leopard, so Miss Grimshaw, at the sound of this voice started from the ledge of the fancy-work stall and looked wildly round her.
In the crowd, beset by two ardent spinsters, one armed with a smoking-cap and the other with a Teddy bear, she saw a bubble-faced gentleman in grey tweeds. Almost with the same sweep of the eye she caught a glimpse of Bobby Dashwood at the bran-pie corner. The wretched Bobby, in his glory was standing on a tub inviting speculators to take a dip. Next moment she had reached him, plucked him by the sleeve and was leading him to the door. She did not speak till they were in the porch, which was deserted.