Joan twinkled mischievously.
“I was afraid you would run away. People are so surly about bazaars. It’s in the village; for a parish nurse. She’s new, and needs a cottage and furniture, and clothes and salary, and the money has to be found. I wanted Geoffrey to give it right out, it’s so much simpler, but he wouldn’t. He thought it was right that other people should help.”
Geoffrey Hilliard said nothing. It was true that he thought it a wrong attitude for a whole parish to depend upon the gifts of one rich man, but an even stronger reason had been his desire to induce his wife to take some active interest in her poorer neighbours and to occupy herself on their behalf. When Joan had unwillingly consented to take the principal stall at the bazaar, he had complacently expected a succession of committee meetings and sewing-bees, which would make a wholesome interest in a life spent too entirely in self-gratification; but the weeks had passed by, and the bazaar was at hand, and so far he had observed no symptoms of work on its behalf.
He sat silently, waiting to glean information through the questioning of his guests.
“I’ve taken part in bazaars before now. I’m an expert at bazaars. Bridgie has had part of a stall several times for things for the regiment; but where is your work?” demanded Pixie sternly. “When you take part in a bazaar it means every room crowded out with cushions and tidies, and mats and pincushions, and sitting up at nights, finishing off and sewing on prices, and days of packing up at the end, to say nothing of circulars and invitations, and your own aprons and caps. I haven’t noticed a bit of fuss. How can you be going to have a bazaar without any fuss?”
She looked so accusingly at her sister as she spoke that the others laughed, but there was a hint of uneasiness in the manner in which Joan glanced at her husband before replying.
“There isn’t any. Why should there be? Fancy work isn’t my forte, and it would bore me to sobs living bazaar for months ahead. I’ve sent money to order ready-mades, and there are a pile of packing-cases stored away upstairs which will provide more than we want. They ought to do, considering the money I’ve spent! I expect the things will be all right.”
“Haven’t you looked?” cried Pixie blankly, while Geoffrey flushed, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered a sarcastic “Charity made easy!” which brought an answering flash into his wife’s eyes.
“Is there anything particularly estimable in upsetting a whole house and wasting time in manufacturing fal-lals which nobody needs? I fail to see it,” she retorted sharply, and Geoffrey shrugged again, his face grim and displeased.
It was not a pleasant moment for the listeners, and one and all were grateful to Stanor Vaughan for the easy volubility, with which he dashed to the rescue.