The rude girl snapped at him a little, although he was such a very dear old Fellah, as Windsor Cassel used to say. But he quite agreed that dining with dull people was likely to overthrow a sensitive digestion; still for the next twenty-four hours at any rate, she must take nothing in the way of nourishment but peptonized biscuits and desiccated milk.
Mr. Philip hardly missed her genial presence at St. Sepulchre’s as much as he might have done perhaps. Sitting with his mother only two rows off the chancel, with his hair brushed back from his intellectual forehead, he got wrong in the responses, couldn’t find the psalms appointed for the Third Sunday, got mixed most hopelessly over the order of the prayers. He allowed his mind to wander in respect of those appointed for the Royal Family; and when the Reverend Canon Fearon, robed in full canonicals and a rather ritualistic stole, came to grips with the Laws of Moses, the mind of Mr. Philip as it envisaged him, saw a golden chariot where other people saw a wooden pulpit merely, and instead of an uncovered sconce of shining silver, a diadem of chestnut curls.
Mr. Philip finally left the chancel with the good old Mater leaning on his arm. She was in need of no assistance, but it looked maternal. They took a short turn in the park to find an appetite for luncheon, but Adela wasn’t among the earnest throng of morning worshipers a-walking there.
In spite of Adela’s absence from the sacred function, Mr. Philip did himself quite well at luncheon, as he always made rather a point of doing in the matter of his meals. In the opinion of this natural philosopher, if you have a good inner lining the crosses of this life are easier to bear.
Adela read the Ladies’ Field and nibbled at her biscuits and toyed with her desiccated milk. But we shall waste no sympathy upon her, she having snapped at the Court Physician—such a very dear old Fellah, with a delightful old-world manner, and a clinical thermometer in the lining of his hat.
Where Mr. Philip spent the afternoon of Sunday is not germane to the issue, but where he spent that of Monday can be handed in as evidence if the Court is quite agreeable.
At five o’clock on Monday, the heir to the barony looked in at a resort of fashion that we almost blush to mention. Youth and beauty in their various disguises were also there. Some in mink and some in ermine, some in frieze and some in velvet, some with clocks upon their wrists, some with clocks upon their stockings, some in paint and some in feathers, some in hobbles, some without ’em, some in turquoise earrings, some in pearls, some in mutch of sanguine hue, some in coalscuttle, some in beehive and other arch creations; and as east of Piccadilly the weather was really getting rather chilly, all we hope, wearing Jaeger underclothing.
Ping went the heart of the heir to the barony as each fresh arrival entered. Ping went the heart of Philip. Ping, ping it went continuous, as the patent doors revolved upon their hinges, and rank and fashion, youth and beauty swept proudly past commissionaires and other quite unimportant people. But as late as 5:15 Arminius Wingrove hadn’t shown a feather.
A puss in every corner worrying buttered scones and muffins with the aid of silver-plated forks. All across the parquet, under palms and awnings, the latest things by Paquin, toyed with their real old china teacups, and coquetted with toast and bread, butter and Monsieur Eschoffier’s most delightful comfit cakes.
Ping went the heart of the heir to the barony; ping went the heart of Philip; but although the strain upon that important organ was terrific, Arminius Wingrove never showed a feather.