“Oh, it was only a suggestion,” said Mrs. Dixon, sailing over the difficulty, and thinking it highly probable that Mrs. Stamford would come to her afterwards about the offer, in order to ask her to use her influence with Lady Jones. The power of the local millionaire does naturally appear illimitable in these days of the higher thought, when everybody is growing able to understand it. It seems odd to think that only a hundred years or so ago people believed there were things more valuable than money.
Andy was engrossed in youthful reminiscences with Irene, so he did not hear the whole conversation between his aunt and his hostess, and now broke in with a genial—
“Very jolly part where my aunt lives. Always something going on!”
“Some people say we give ourselves airs at Barkham—but we don’t, really. Only it’s impossible to know everybody who wants to know you, isn’t it?” said Irene.
“Yes,” continued Phyllis, who was rather excited at the way in which she was getting on with a smart man about town such as Dick appeared to be. “I’ve heard it said I was ‘sidey.’ Now you could hardly believe that, could you, Mr. Stamford?”
Mr. Stamford bent towards her, and, under cover of some general conversation about the garden-party to which they were all going, he murmured in her ear—
“Couldn’t believe anything about you that wasn’t most awfully nice, you know.”
The last young lady to whom Dick said that, had replied loudly with a push, “Get along with you!” Phyllis translated this into a whispered “Oh! I’ve heard that old tale before!” which did just as well, and held that same pleasant, beckoning intention which Dick called vaguely, in his own mind, “Having no nonsense about her.”
Then the fruit furnished a topic to Mrs. Dixon, who described the strawberries she had eaten in February at the table of Sir Henry and Lady Jones, and Andy said he hated fruit out of season, which his aunt thought stupid when it was so fashionable—she resolved to speak to him about it afterwards; and finally the whole party went out into the gardens to await the arrival of the motor which was to take them to the Attertons’ garden-party.
Speculation was rife in Mrs. Dixon’s mind during that interval. She began to feel, somehow, that Mrs. Stamford could have a silk-lined dress trimmed with lace, too, if she wanted it—and yet she wore that blouse! Could it be considered more aristocratic in county society to go to a party in loose rags than in a tight and expensive toilet? If so, she and the girls would get rags. They had climbed into the Jones’ set from an obscure company of poorish merchants and professional people by showing themselves equal to any society, and they would continue to follow out the same successful principles without regard to personal feeling.