Going on to Lady Lila's stall, a mass of carnations and roses and sweet peas, the secretary asked for the gifts of flowers. The Canon had begged from half his county.
The same vague look. "Oh, all these hampers and boxes. You see, these were in and the florist's people arrange and settle them for us. We'd have to bunch all these others, wouldn't we? Oh, of course, they'd be clear profit, but one cannot wait for chance gifts, can one? One must be ready."
Baskets of dewy rosebuds, of white pinks, sweet peas, of carnations lay withering behind the stalls. The florists had decked the tables, would do the same to-morrow. One could not bother with piles of things loose in baskets.
Canon Bright, used to humble county bazaars, where every gift was welcomed, could not understand it.
He bought lavishly. He looked with a smile which was almost wistful at the mites who fluttered about the thronged hall, their notices held up by wires above the crowns of roses.
"For the tiny crippled children." They rattled their little bags of money as they sold their goods.
"Fink there are any crippled children?" said Lady Pollie to her friend the Honourable Anne Buller.
"No fear! They's all kept in big places in beds. It's just fun for us an' Mumsie. She loves her yellow dress; she's a rose too, Mumsie is. Who gave you the gold piece, Pollie?"
"The fat man there; he said I was a sufferin' angel, or perhaps it was 'nother long word. Let's go an' eat ices or strawberries."
Money pouring into cash boxes; sovereigns for buttonholes; notes for foolish trumpery.