Miss Tibbutt and Father Dormer were sitting on the sofa; Pia was in an armchair near the open window, and Doctor Hilary was standing on the hearthrug. His dress clothes seemed to increase his size, and he did not look perfectly at home in them; or, perhaps, it was merely the fact that he was so seldom seen in them. Doctor Hilary in a shabby overcoat or loose tweeds, was the usual sight.
Father Dormer was a tallish thin man, with very aquiline features, and dark hair going grey on his temples. At the moment he and Miss Tibbutt were deep in a discussion on rose growing, a favourite hobby of his. Deeply engrossed, they were weighing the advantages of the scent of the more old-fashioned kinds, against the shape and colour of the newer varieties, with the solemnity of two judges.
“They’re pretty equally balanced in my garden,” said Father Dormer. “I can’t do without the old-fashioned ones, despite the beauty of the newer sorts. I’ve two bushes of the red and white—the York and Lancaster rose. I was a Lancashire lad, you know.”
And then the first soft notes of the gong sounded from the hall, rising to a full boom beneath the footman’s accomplished stroke.
There was a sound of running steps descending the stairs, and a final jump.
“Keep it going, Dale,” said a voice without. And then Trix entered the room, slightly flushed by her rapid descent of the stairs, but with an assumption of leisurely dignity.
“I’m not late,” she announced with great innocence. “The gong hasn’t stopped.”
Doctor Hilary, who was facing the door, looked at her. He saw a small, elf-like girl in a very shimmery green frock. The green enhanced her elf-like appearance.
“Deceiver,” laughed Pia. “We heard you quite, quite distinctly.”
Obviously caught, Trix echoed the laugh.