“Don’t be absurd, Polly. I’d very much rather you hadn’t come—you know that. But, since you’re here, do try to be normal.”
“There you are!” cried racy Mrs. Ocklebourne, turning to her companions with a tragic expression; “I told you she wouldn’t stretch out a hand to save sinners. But methinks I scent the cloth of the cleric, and I am sure I detect the camphor wherein furs have lain all summer. Come, Mary, bridge the gulf between the sheep and the goats, and introduce us to the bishop.”
“An unexpected pleasure,” exclaimed the rector, who had just entered the room, coming forward to greet Mrs. Ocklebourne. “You should have come to the ceremony? We had a most eloquent address from the bishop—let me make you known to each other.”
“Delighted,” murmured Mrs. Ocklebourne, with a smirk at her hostess, who was supremely uncomfortable, “and I do so want to know your dear wife, bishop. So does Major Joicy. He’s tremendously interested in the Something Society, which looks after 113 the poor black things out in Nigeria—that is the name of the place, isn’t it?”—this with a sweet smile at the major, who was blushing like a schoolboy, and thoroughly unhappy. When detached from the racecourse or the card-table, his command of language was nil. He would rather have encountered a wild beast than a bishop’s wife, and Mrs. Ocklebourne knew this.
She was thoroughly enjoying herself, for she was full of mischief, and the present situation promised to yield a rich harvest. But another look at the weary face of Mrs. Swinton made her change her tactics. She laid herself out to amuse the bishop, and also to charm his wife.
“The sinner has beguiled the saint,” whispered Mrs. Ocklebourne, as the party made a move for the dining-room, “but I’m hungry, and, if I were really good, I believe I should want a high tea every day.”
The meal was a merry one. Polly Ocklebourne had the most infectious laugh in the world, and she kept the conversation going in splendid fashion, whipping up the laggards and getting the best out of everybody. She even succeeded in making the major tell a funny story, at which everybody laughed.
A little while before the time for the bishop to leave, a servant whispered to the rector that a gentleman was waiting in the study to see him. He did 114 not trouble to inquire the visitor’s name. Since money affairs had been straightened out, these chance visitors had lost their terror, and anyone was free to call upon the clergyman, with the certainty of a hearing, at morning, noon, or night, on any day in the week.
Mr. Barnby was the visitor. He came forward to shake the rector’s hand awkwardly.
“What is it, Barnby?” cried the rector, with a laugh. “No overdrawn account yet awhile, surely.”