“It’s foolish to let a man of that kind upset one,” said Edith rather evasively.
“I agree. But tell me——?”
“It will only annoy you.” Filial regard and outraged feelings had begun a pitched battle. “It’s merely weak to be worried by that kind of creature.”
“My dear girl”—the tone was very stern—“tell me in just two words what has happened.” And the vicar laid down his pen and sat back in his chair.
“I have been insulted.” Edith made heroic fight but the sense of outrage was too much for her.
“How? In what way?” The county magistrate had begun to take a hand in the proceedings.
A little alarmed, Edith plunged into a narrative of events. “I had just one feather left on my return from Heathfield,” she said, “and as I came across the Common there was John Smith loafing about as he so often is. So I went up to him and said: ‘I should like to give you this.’”
A look of pained annoyance came into the vicar’s face. “It may be right in principle,” he said, “but the method doesn’t appeal to me. And I warned you that something of this kind might happen.”
“But he ought to be in the army. Or working at munitions.”
“Maybe. Well, you gave him the feather. And what happened?”