“Most unsuitable. Too light. A dark flannel is the right thing for the occasion. You will have time to change it before you start. Don’t forget!”
Teresa cast down her eyes and applied herself steadily to bacon. She had not the slightest intention of wearing a dark flannel blouse. The blue crêpe had been chosen, not for its durability, but that it might look pleasant in the eyes of Dane Peignton. All the mothers in the world could not have made Teresa change it; so what was the use of discussing the point! She gave the conversation an adroit little switch.
“Don’t wait lunch for me, Mother. I shall probably go to the Vicarage. We shall need all our time.”
“We are having fried steak. If you come at all, you must be punctual. If it’s done too long, all the strength has gone. I could give you sandwiches to eat in the vestry. Or it might be stewed. If papa did not object, it could quite well be stewed. He dislikes the onions. If we had carrots instead, would you object, papa? But, of course, there’s the flavour. Carrots are not so seasoning... Perhaps it had better be sandwiches. Mary, is there a glass of that chicken and ham paste? See if there’s a glass, dear. Cook could make some nice fresh sandwiches.”
Mary moved automatically, but Teresa stopped her with a waving hand.
“I loathe sandwiches. I shall go somewhere and have a proper lunch. Don’t bother, Mother.”
“My dear,” said Mrs Mallison reproachfully, “I am your mother. When you have a tiring day before you I am naturally anxious that you should be fed. They will be busy at the Vicarage. Cold meat and salad. One could hardly expect more, but you are accustomed to a hot dish. It is the day for steak, but if papa didn’t object we might change. I don’t care for changes as a rule, it upsets the servants, but just for once.—A chicken now! You like chicken. Just run to the telephone, dear, and tell Bates to send one up. Good, roasting. Three and six. If papa doesn’t mind.”
Not a flicker of expression passed over the Major’s face. He was the Jorkins of the establishment, and knew well that, useful as he might be for purposes of quotation, he was negligible as a working factor. He continued resignedly to partake of bacon. Teresa vouchsafed an appreciative smile.
“We’ll have fowl for dinner. Plenty of time when the boy calls. I’m going out to lunch, Mother. I’d rather. It’s part of the fun.”
Mrs Mallison sighed. Here was one of the expected trials. A daughter, unappreciative, preferring to roam abroad, oblivious of the fact that after a morning’s church decorating she would be in possession of a harvest of small talk which a mother would naturally desire to hear. Who decorated the lectern; who the finials; who did the windows this year? The windows were the least coveted post. A mother whose daughter had been honoured with the east end would naturally feel agreeable sympathy for the mother of those who wrestled modestly with window-sills. Then also there were subsidiary interests. Who brought the Squire’s flowers? Did Lady Cassandra drive down? Was the Vicar tiresome about nails? Exactly what did everyone present say about Teresa’s scheme of colour? The good lady felt it hard that she should have to wait until evening to satisfy her interest on these thrilling points. She set her lips and said to herself, “Certainly not! If young people have no consideration for others, they cannot expect to be indulged. Not fowl. Roast end of the neck.”