Having made mental notes concerning the tea-gown, Mrs Merrivale next turned her attention to the room, and stared around with frank curiosity and a barely concealed envy.
“Your room looks so pretty. Jacky, that’s exactly the material I wanted for our curtains. You have beautiful china. I’m collecting, too; but”—she gave an expressive shrug. “Of course, this room lends itself; it is so big, and get’s all the sun. You remember, Jacky”—she looked at her husband with widened eyes—“Mr Maplestone called it a ‘Sun Trap’.”
It seemed an innocent enough remark, but the Vicar’s grave assent implied a deeper meaning. Mrs Merrivale sighed, and elaborately lengthened her chin.
“Uplands is so bleak. General Underwood feels the cold so much. All the windows of the entertaining rooms seem to look the wrong way.”
“He should have some more put in, facing the sun,” Charmion suggested in her regal way, and Mrs Merrivale looked as much aghast as if she had suggested pulling down the whole house and building it afresh. I burst hastily into the conversation.
“I think I met General Underwood the other day. In a bath-chair. I was glad that he was well enough to get out. I hope he will soon be quite well.”
The Vicar said gravely:—
“He will never be well. The most that can be hoped is that he will not grow worse rapidly. He is a fine man, and has done good service. We are proud to have him back amongst us, but I am afraid, for his own sake, it has been a bad move. He ought to have settled in a kindlier climate.”
“Yes, but—” Mrs Merrivale began impulsively, and pulled herself up, and bit her red lip. “Jacky,” she said hurriedly, “I’m afraid we must go.”
They went, and I felt a worm. It was plain to me now that the parish in general, from the Vicar downward, had absorbed the idea that the strange ladies at Pastimes had played a mean trick on their local hero, and were not inclined to smile upon the ladies in consequence. The Vicar had probably heard the Squire’s prejudiced story direct, and from the Manor House and the Vicarage reports had percolated, as such reports will percolate, to the draper’s assistants, and the man in the street, down and down to the truant cook herself.