He was smiling, composed, unconscious of offence. The ache sharpened into pain at the realisation, but Teresa had a wisdom beyond her years, and allowed no sign of disappointment to become visible. To sulk and looked aggrieved was not the way to increase a man’s admiration. She smiled into his eyes, and cried readily:
“Heaps of things! I need you for all the stretchy places. You are so big. And those great palms... They have to go into the corners. Will you help me to move them?”
“Certainly not. I’ll do it myself. Just point out where they are to go. What’s the good of me if I can’t save you fatigue?”
The tenderness of his smile was as ointment of healing, but true to her principles Teresa averted her eyes, and put on her most business-like manner, so that no answering sign of tenderness might be visible. Not to the verger himself had her manner been more cool and detached, but Dane showed no sign of dissatisfaction. They had met to work, not to make love; he admired the girl for her brisk, capable ways, and found pleasure in the sight of her alert young figure clad in the short skirt, stout boots, and untrimmed hat. They worked industriously for the next half-hour, banking up comers of palms, covering the foremost pots with a velvety cushion of moss. Side by side they knelt on the marble floor, pulling apart the fragrant sods, patting them into shape. Once when a rebellious morsel refused to remain in place Teresa fumbled among her yellow locks for a hairpin to act as skewer, whereupon Dane made a quick movement to withdraw her hand.
“No, no, it’s covered with soil! ... Let me!” He covered his finger and thumb with a handkerchief, carefully extracted the nearest pin, and held it towards her. “That’s better! It’s too bad to soil your pretty hair. You’ve got loads of hair, haven’t you? I love to see a girl with good hair. How far does it come down?”
“Past my waist.” Teresa’s conscience pricked her on account of one braid which could come down as far as required, but there seemed no immediate need for confession on that score. Her cheeks were flushed, she took a long time over the last arrangement of moss, pondering uneasily. Had anyone seen? What would they think? She hoped to goodness that Miss Mason’s eyes had been averted! What Miss Mason saw at noon, was parish news by sunfall... “By the by, you’ll be interested to hear that Teresa Mallison is engaged to that young Peignton. I saw him distinctly stroking her hair.” In imagination she could hear the thin, clipped voice scattering the news broadcast. And in time it would come to Dane’s own ears...
Teresa rose and cast a searching glance round the church. No one was looking, the workers were engrossed and preoccupied. The Vicar’s wife was affixing a cross of daffodils to the front of the pulpit, the doctor’s daughters were trimming the lectern with stiff little bunches of daffodils. All down the aisle workers were twisting sprays of ivy round the tall gas standards, in the discreet background dowdy nobodies were wrestling with window-sills. The Vicar’s wife held firmly to the theory of universal brotherhood, but it would never have occurred to her to ask a wealthy parishioner to “do” the windows, or a tradesman’s wife to undertake the east end. Teresa and Dane left the chancel and stood hesitating at the head of the aisle. Now they were ready for the cut flowers, and the cut flowers had not arrived.
“The Squire promised to send down. I wrote again last night to remind him. He can’t have forgotten.”
“Oh, no. They’ll be here soon. There’s a car at the door now.” Peignton peered forward, looking down the length of the aisle into the sunlit churchyard beyond, and the girl watching him, as she loved to do at unobserved moments, saw a sudden light come into the lazy eyes. She peered in her turn, and beheld a small grey foot emerge from the door of the car, then a second foot, and finally a tall figure, grey-robed, grey-furred, which stood aside, sharply outlined against the darkness of the background, and waited for the descent of still another figure, coated in white.
Lady Cassandra! ... she had come herself, and with her Mrs Martin Beverley. They were driving about together in the morning, a sign of intimacy more eloquent than a dozen afternoon meetings. They were smiling into each other’s faces as they walked up the church path, talking with the ease of lifelong friends.