The heat in the tent being unbearable the President’s party had it to themselves. Therefore Maria’s audible groan at the sight of the task before her was heard by none save her lord.
“Bear up, Mother,” Josiah’s tone was a highly judicious blend of sternness, banter and persuasion. “It’s not as if you had to make a speech, you know. And if you did have there’s nobody here who’d bite you. I’d see to that.”
This was encouraging, yet certain gyrations of the black and white parasol betrayed to the lynx-eyed Gerty the sinister presence of stage fright. “Maria,” said the inexorable monitress, “you must show Spirit. Hold your sunshade as I’ve shown you. Keep your chin up. And try to smile.”
This counsel of perfection was, at the moment, clearly beyond Maria. But the President’s nod approved it, and Gerty, one of those powerful spirits that loves to do with public affairs, proceeded on a flute-like note, “Dear me, what lovely prizes!”
It was hyperbole to speak of the prizes as lovely, but it was, of course, the correct thing to say, and in the ear of Josiah the correct thing was said in the correct way. It would have been difficult for the duchess herself to have bettered that pure note of lofty enthusiasm.
“Not so bad, Gert, are they? What do you think o’ that little vawse? Presented by Coppin, the jeweler.”
To assess the gift of Coppin, the jeweler, it was necessary for Miss Preston to bring into action her famous tortoiseshell folders. She had no need for glasses at all. But Lawyer Mossop’s aunt, the late Miss Selina Gregg, had aroused in her a passion for their use on appropriate occasions. “A ducky little vahse!” That vexed word was pronounced after the manner of the late Miss Gregg, from whose practice there was no appeal.
”Not so bad—for Coppin. Better anyway than his silver-plated eggstand last year.”
Gerty made an admiring survey of the bounty of the patrons of the Blackhampton Rose Growers’ Association. “And here, I see, is the President’s special prize.” She had kept in reserve her appreciation of this chef d’œuvre of public munificence, a much beribboned silver gilt goblet to which a card was attached, “President’s Special Prize for Rose of Purest Color. Donor Alderman Munt J.P.” It was the first thing her eye had lit on, but she had worked up to it slowly, via the lesser gifts of lesser men, so that anything in the nature of anticlimax might be avoided.
“Josiah, tell me, who is the fortunate winner?” The archness of the tone verged upon coquetry.