Never before had she guessed that Miss Page was witty. Wit at Dymfield was not understood; it was ignored, passed over in silence disapproving because uncomprehended. Quicker than her neighbours, Mrs. Dakin realized that in an argument on a play of Bernard Shaw’s which Monsieur Fontenelle had recently seen in America, Miss Page was saying good things. In opposing his view, her raillery, delicate and ingenious, brought a frequent smile to his lips, and more than once an appreciative burst of laughter.
Mr. Carfax, who had never heard of Bernard Shaw, asked for the story of the play.
His hostess told it in a few words. That they were in every respect well chosen, Mrs. Dakin, who had also never read the works of the latter-day apostle, guessed from a faint smile of admiration, which at various points in the narrative lighted the Frenchman’s face. Mr. Carfax nodded his head approvingly when she ceased.
“Very good, I should say. Full of common sense and right views. We want some one to elevate the stage; and I’m glad this man, what’s his name? Ah! Shaw—is a Britisher. I believe in home-grown literature; something that expresses the character of the English people. A fine, sturdy character; the best in the world.”
Miss Page rose without looking at Monsieur Fontenelle, whose smile, for greater safety, had taken refuge in his eyes.
Mrs. Dakin and Mrs. Carfax followed her into the drawing-room, and as though stricken with fear lest the dinner-table topics had resulted in dissatisfaction for her guests, she moved close to Mrs. Carfax.
“I saw Sylvia, to-day, looking so pretty,” she began in her gentle, caressing voice.
Mrs. Carfax bridled, half pleased, half unwilling to accept a compliment on behalf of a daughter who was unsatisfactory.
“Looks don’t matter so much as right behaviour,” she returned. “She displeases her father very much with what he calls her advanced ideas. I don’t know what they are, I’m sure, except wanting to get away from a good home. I wish you would speak to her, Miss Page. She thinks so much of you. You might bring her to her senses.”
“Poor little Sylvia,” said Miss Page, softly. “She’s very young, my dear—and she’s a sweet child at heart. Do ask her to come to tea with me to-morrow.”