“Well, I am sure, Roderick,” said Mrs. Carpenter as she turned the last page of a letter she was reading, “Evangeline Hatton seems to be laying up a nice future for herself. Emmie Trotter is staying down there with Maisie and she says that Mrs. Vachell is in and out of the Hattons’ house the whole time, influencing Evangeline to run down her husband. And that poor Evan Hatton is as blind as a bat and running after Mrs. Vachell all the time. Of course, Amy Vachell is one of those hard women who never see when men are attracted by them. All she thinks of is her social work and I have often told her it is dangerous and that in her anxiety to put women on a higher footing she forgets that men persist in remaining on the lower one and they misunderstand her motives. I knew she would get into trouble some day.” There was a note of triumph in her voice.
“Yers,” her husband answered deprecatingly over the top of his pince-nez. “Yers—yers—very foolish of her.”
“They will come to grief in the end, you will see,” said Mrs. Carpenter, as one who observes the first swallow of the season.
She met Mrs. Eric Manley that afternoon at a sale of work on behalf of an inebriates’ home in Mrs. Abel’s parish. They wandered together from stall to stall, inspecting photograph frames ornamented with landscapes in poker work, table centres and tea-cosies of hand-painted satin, pinafores edged with cheap lace, preposterous woollen garments for all ages, dreary confections in flannelette that would make a Hottentot pessimistic, dusters, packets of Lux and grate polish; everything that could most vividly recall the horrors of the Will to Live and the Desire to Decorate at Random. The two friends sat down presently to tea in a small room festooned with coloured muslin, served by ladies who were beginning to feel the running about rather a strain though great fun.
“Well, my dear, how is it that you are still here?” asked Mrs. Carpenter. “I told Mrs. Abel that it was a bad time to have the sale as everybody would be away, but she said that some of the best helpers would have more time now. Of course, we shall get off to Scotland later. I heard to-day that Evangeline Hatton and her husband are not enjoying their holiday very much, poor things. They are at Roscombe with the boy and Teresa Fulton, and the Vachells are there too. I am afraid Amy Vachell is stirring up mischief. It is a great pity for such young married things.”
“Oh, who told you?” asked Mrs. Manley.
“Emmie Trotter for one. She is quite worried about it. Captain Hatton is so dogged, you know, with that kind of foolish religious fervour. It does blind people so when it takes hold of them; they don’t seem to see anything else. Of course he is a splendid man; so upright and devoted to her. But I do think it is a great mistake to get carried away by that kind of thing.”
“And what is Mrs. Vachell after, do you suppose?” inquired her friend.
“Oh, dear Amy! I am sure I don’t know. Of course one knows that she is absolutely straight; no one could doubt that. But it is a pity, I think, the things she does sometimes—with that far-away look of hers, don’t you know? She may have encouraged Evangeline without meaning anything, and made her rebel against his very dogmatic manner. And the Professor is so silly; he really is. All that about Mrs. Harting was so absurd. She is a very intellectual woman; I get on with her splendidly, we have so much in common; and she threw herself into all his excavations and so on, and of course dear Amy was just a little—well, she didn’t like it; naturally she wouldn’t; but there was absolutely no more in it than that. However, it may have made Amy bitter and perhaps she has lashed out against men and put Evangeline up to some nonsense. I wonder if I could do any good by having a chat with her mother.”
“I should leave it alone, I think,” Mrs. Manley advised. “You won’t get anything out of Mrs. Fulton. She is so extraordinarily broad-minded and indulgent and thinks everybody means well.”