Mrs. Barbour shook her head, secure in her own worldly wisdom and code of conduct.
"But men make mistakes. Don't they? You know they do."
"Of course they do. I've made hundreds, but never the sort I think you mean."
"You see," explained the clergyman's relict, "Fenella leads a strange life. Yes"—she repeated the phrase, as though she found it vaguely comforting—"a strange life. She's very bright and talented, and receives a great deal of attention; but for reasons that—well, for reasons, she can't see much of her friends here. I assure you, you are the first gentleman acquaintance she has ever asked in. You ought to feel very much flattered, Mr. Ingram."
"To an extent that verges on embarrassment, Mrs. Barbour."
"And then," the mother went on, in the heedless fashion that recalled her daughter, "she has a great number of fine relations who would be glad to show her attention if she'd make the first move. But Nelly won't be 'taken up'—that's what she calls it—taken up, by any one."
"Bravo!" said Paul. "Let us be fellow-conspirators, Mrs. Barbour, and confine her bounty to the laborious and deserving class."
"Oh my!" exclaimed Mrs. Barbour, with sudden helplessness. "You do talk like my husband! It's quite uncanny."
Fenella interrupted them, entering with noisy suddenness. The new hat, very large, very smart, was on her head. She looked quickly from one to the other.
"What've you two been yapping about?" she asked. "Mother"—in an aggrieved voice—"this beastly hat is an inch too big all round. I told Clarice so, but you and she would talk me down. You never take my part with dressmakers and people. It'll have to be altered. Hats are getting smaller. Have you rung for tea?"