“I’ve heard him two or three times,” answered Dion, who was on very good, though not on very intimate, terms with Canon Wilton. “I’d rather hear him than anybody.”
“In the pulpit—yes, I suppose so. I’m scarcely an amateur of sermons. He’s a volcano of sincerity, and never sends out ashes. It’s all red-hot lava. Have you met Cynthia Clarke?”
“No.”
“She’s over there, echoing my Echo. Would you like——?”
“Very much indeed.”
“Then I’ll—”
An extremely pale man, with long, alarmingly straight hair and wandering eyes almost the color of silver, said something to her.
“Watteau? Oh, no—he died in 1721, not in 1722,” she replied. “The only date I can never remember is William the Conqueror. But of course you couldn’t remember about Watteau. It’s distance makes memory. You’re too near.”
“That’s the fan painter, Murphy-Elphinston, Watteau’s reincarnation,” she added to Dion. “He’s always asking questions about himself. Cynthia—this is Mr. Dion Leith. He wishes——” She drifted away, not, however, without dexterously managing to convey Mr. Darlington with her.
Dion found himself looking into the large, distressed eyes of Mrs. Clarke. Daventry was standing close to her, but, with a glance at his friend, moved away.