Curiosity is a terrible thing. It’s bad enough when it concerns itself about other people, but when it comes to oneself, it’s ten times worse. I ached to ask, “When?” and “Where?” and “How?” and exactly in what words Mr Maplestone’s dislike had been expressed, but pride closed my lips, and I would not let myself go. Of course I had known before, but I had imagined that after the chair episode—What stings is not the dislike itself, but the putting it into words to such a confidante as Delphine. No, let me be honest; the dislike itself does sting. I have my own petty feminine craving, and it is to be liked, to have people appreciate and approve of me, if they do nothing more. Even indifference is difficult to bear, but dislike— Well, thank goodness, I have lived in a warm-hearted country among warm-hearted people who have loved me for my name if for nothing else. Really and truly, I believe this ugly, red-headed man is the first person who has ever dared to speak openly of dislike for Evelyn Wastneys!
I pity and despise him. I wouldn’t have his approval if I could. Henceforth I shall never think of him, nor mention his name. To me he is dead. All is over between us before anything ever began! It is finished. This is the end. The fête ended at nine o’clock, and Charmion and I, with the other stall-holders, went into the vicarage to enjoy a supper of scraps. As a rule I adore scrap suppers after everyone has gone, and the servants have gone to bed, and the guests make sorties into the pantry, and bring out plates of patties and fruit, and derelict meringues, and wobbling halves of jellies and creams. They taste so good, eaten in picnic fashion before the fire, with a shortage of forks and spoons, and a plate as a lucky chance. But somehow last night things didn’t go! I think perhaps there were too many “scraps” which should by rights have been sold and paid for in good hard cash. The Vicar was full of hospitable zeal, and evidently enjoyed pressing the good things upon his guests, but there was something in Delphine’s pale glance which checked merriment. She had had her fun, the interest of planning, the excitement of playing hostess to the country-side, the satisfaction of knowing herself to be the best-dressed, most admired woman present, and of queening it over women who had hitherto patronised herself. Poor little butterfly! she had enjoyed her hour, but now the sun had gone down, and she was counting the cost. The treasurer added up the coins handed in from the various stalls and announced the total. There was a little pause.
“Ah!” said the Vicar slowly. “More than last year, but not so much as we hoped. How will it work out, dear, after paying expenses?”
“Oh, Jacky, I’m tired! Can’t we have supper in peace, before worrying about money!” she cried pettishly.
Not another word was said.
When we were driving home, Charmion gave me a shock.
“I rather like Mrs Maplestone,” she said dreamily. “She is stiff and conventional, and it has never even occurred to her that anyone can disagree with her views, and still have a glimmering of right, but, at least, she is sincere. If one could burrow deep enough beneath the surface, she’d be worth knowing.”
“I don’t like people who have to be burrowed. Life is too short. And I am perfectly certain that I should shock her into fits. Personally, I don’t intend to take the trouble of excavating!”
“That’s unfortunate, for she wishes to know you. She has invited us to dinner next Wednesday to meet some friends.”
“Charmion! You didn’t accept?”