“He’d been an invalid for a long time,” explained the Duchessa. She was a little, just a trifle anxious as to whether the conversation might not prove embarrassing for Doctor Hilary. There was a feeling in the village that the journey, which Doctor Hilary had permitted—some, indeed, said advocated—had been entirely responsible for the death.
But Doctor Hilary was eating his dinner, apparently utterly and completely at his ease.
“Anyhow the gardens aren’t being neglected,” said Father Dormer. “They’ve got a new under-gardener there who is proving rather a marvel in his line. In fact Golding confesses that he’ll have to look out for his own laurels. He’s a nice looking fellow, this new man, and a cut above the ordinary type, I should say. I used to see him in church after Mass on Sundays at one time. But he has given up coming lately.”
“Really,” said the Duchessa.
Trix looked up quickly, surprised at the intonation of her voice.
“Oh, he isn’t a Catholic,” smiled Father Dormer. “Perhaps curiosity brought him in the beginning, and now it has worn off.”
Trix was still looking at the Duchessa. She couldn’t make out the odd intonation of her voice. It had been indifferent enough to be almost rude. But, if it were intended for a snub, Father Dormer had evidently not taken it as such. Yet there was a little pause on the conclusion of his remark, almost as if Doctor Hilary and Miss Tibbutt had had the same idea as herself. At least, that was what Trix felt the little pause to mean. And then she was suddenly annoyed with herself for having felt it. Of course it was quite absurd.
She looked down at her plate of clear soup. It had letters of a white edible substance floating in it.
“I’ve got an A and two S’s in my soup,” she remarked pathetically. “I don’t think it is quite tactful of the cook.”
There was an instant lowering of eyes towards soup plates, an announcing of the various letters seen therein. Trix had an application for each, making the letters stand as the initials for words.