“Evelyn, will you get ready to go up to town by the five o’clock train this afternoon? The Archbishop has appointed our interview for three o’clock to-morrow. You had better pack for two or three nights.”
Mrs Faucit gave an irrepressible start of consternation. Was ever anything so unfortunate! The interview with the Archbishop had been talked of for months past; half a dozen letters had been exchanged on the subject within the last fortnight; the question which was to be discussed was of pressing importance. She realised at once that the appointment must be kept, but her heart sank as she looked at the three young faces beside her—aghast, and speechless with horror.
“Oh! is it really to-morrow?” she cried. “Are you quite sure, dear? Look again! you so often make mistakes in the date. Does he say Wednesday the sixteenth, or Wednesday the twenty-third?”
The Dean peered at his letter once more.
“He says: I shall be able to meet you on Wednesday next, sixteenth instant. It is certainly to-morrow. Why, Evelyn; is there any reason why—er—?”
“It is the day of Mrs Newland’s picnic. I have accepted her invitation—”
“Oh, is that all!” Her husband drew a sigh of relief. “You must write, of course, and explain your absence. She will understand, and it will be a relief to you, dear. I—er—I have some recollection of being at a picnic myself years ago. Uncomfortable occasion! Er—earwigs—meals on the grass—baskets to carry. You would have been very tired. Much more comfortable at the Métropole!”
Mrs Faucit could not restrain a smile in spite of her concern.
“Just so, Austin; but that is not the light in which the young people look at it. I was to chaperone the girls. I am thinking of them, not of myself. It will be a great disappointment.”
The Dean put up his eye-glasses, and stared at the three girls in turn. His own daughters were white with suppressed emotion, but Mildred’s face was tragic in its agony of suspense. She did not say a word, but she turned her great, grey eyes upon him, piteous as those of a child who sees a surgeon standing over her, knife in hand; and as he met that glance the Dean rumpled his hair in perturbation of spirit.