“I am afraid Lingthurst church must strike you unpleasantly,” said Cicely, anxious to say something to set him at his ease. “I don’t think it ever occurred to me before how very ugly it is. It looked somehow, extra chilly and gloomy this morning. I even felt grateful to the row of old Dame Durdens in their red cloaks.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hayle calmly, “I think it is the ugliest church, for its size, that I ever saw. I am glad you think it ugly, Miss Methvyn, for I hope you may help me to do what can be done towards improving it.”
Cicely looked a little startled.
“You must ask Lady Frederica in the first place,” she said. “Lingthurst isn’t our church, Mr. Hayle; we only go there because it is so much nearer than Haverstock.”
“And because it is so much nicer to walk through the woods than to drive along the dusty high-road,” observed Mr. Fawcett quietly.
“Trevor,” said Miss Methvyn, her face flushing a little.
Geneviève began to laugh, but Mr. Hayle looked graver than before. He disliked the faintest suspicion of a joke on certain subjects, and he saw that Miss Methvyn seemed annoyed. He turned to her, completely ignoring Mr. Fawcett’s remark.
“I am afraid there is not very much that can be done,” he said. “At the best I do not hope for much at present.”
Then they talked about other things for a few minutes till their ways separated, Mr. Hayle turning off in the direction of a small hamlet about a mile away.
“This is my best way to Notcotts, is it not?” he inquired as he said good-bye, and Mr. Fawcett went a few steps down the lane with him to make his instructions more clear.