“Still ... not ... quite ... maidenly ... Josiah.”
“Daresay you’re right.” The Mayor fought down his feelings. “Next chicken on the roost’ll be the hussy puttin’ up for parliament.”
“Bound to get in if she does,” Gerty sounded rather rueful. “There isn’t a constituency in England that wouldn’t jump at the chance of electing her just now.”
Josiah breathed hard while this obvious truth sank into his bones, but Mrs. Doctor assured Gerty that she was talking nonsense. Her father being frankly opposed to this pious opinion, Ethel appealed to her mother. Maria, alas, was in the position of a modest wether who has given birth to a superb young panther. She simply didn’t know what to think, and by forlornly folding her hands on her lap gave mute expression to her feelings.
At the best, however, it was a futile discussion as Gerty was quick to realize. She turned the talk adroitly into other channels. “This morning,” she said, “as I was walking along Queen’s Road I had quite a shock. I met a blind man being led by an old woman. And who do you think it was?”
Mrs. Doctor had no idea who it could be.
“It was Harold Nixey the architect. Such a pitiful object! Did you know, Josiah, that he is now quite blind?”
Josiah was aware of the fact.
“How sad, how very sad!” said Ethel. “And he has done so well, so wonderfully well, in France.”
Gerty considered it nothing less than a calamity—for an architect of all people. And for one who promised such great things.