“Lady Jones came to open a bazaar for a former curate of the church she attends at home,” explained the Mayoress. “We took the liberty of asking for an invitation.”
“Very ’appy to be of any service to the town,” said Lady Jones with ineffable aplomb and condescension.
“Lady Jones bought most of the big things, including the screen your aunt sent, Miss Elizabeth,” said the Mayor effusively. He was a decent man, but you have to be effusive to millions.
“I hope you like the embroidery—my aunt spent months over it,” said Elizabeth.
“Which was it? Oh, the cockatoos? Very nice, I’m sure. But I just pass the things on, on mass, to another bazaar. I don’t buy what I want for the Towers at bazaars.”
“Of course not,” murmured the Mayoress. “Maple’s, more likely, or Christy’s——”
“Lovely things at Christy’s,” agreed Mr. Atterton, who also saw, not a fat, rather vulgar woman, but a heap of money which had shed some of its particles to forward an object which he had at heart, and could shed more at will.
Then Andy came forward—it had taken him the few moments to recover his self-control—and the great lady shook hands with him.
“Glad to hear you’ve got a living,” she said. “But I always told your aunt it was a pity you would be a parson. Never a penny to bless themselves with—and begging all round.”
“I’m satisfied,” said Andy, with a grin.