Thus was the dignity of the Church restored.
“Silly sort of dance, I think,” remarked Rose Werrit to Dick Stamford; “but, of course, they had primitive ideas in those days.”
“Well, I liked it,” said Dick, who was more lined about the mouth and heavier about the eyes than a young man ought to be. “No stiffness about it.”
“We’re not dancing now, Mr. Stamford,” giggled Rose, moving her arm.
“Oh, I thought we were. I forget what I’m doing when I’m with such a pretty girl as you,” responded Dick, whose mode of compliment had been learned in circles where, in such matters, you dot your i’s and cross your t’s.
Rose frowned, but only as an offering to propriety, and accompanied Dick in high feather to a buffet where supper was already in progress.
Mrs. Will Werrit, Mrs. Thorpe, and Mrs. Jebb again foregathered round a little table and criticised the refreshments.
“Never was a cook yet who could make bread,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “The inside of these sandwiches is all right—but the bread——”
“There’s a tang about the butter too,” said Mrs. Will Werrit.
“Talking of butter,” said Mrs. Jebb, rather left out and anxious to make herself conversationally felt, “it’s a queer thing—I’m telling you in strictest confidence—that Mr. Deane never touches it now.”