Cecil was saying to Billy and Jane, “He wants me to put Lesbia behind the window-curtain, and make her overhear it all. Behind the window-curtain, you know! He really does. Could you have suspected even our Musgrave of being so banal, Billy? He’s not even Edwardian—he’s late-Victorian....”
Arnold said over his shoulder, “Can’t somebody stop him? Do try, Jane. He’s spoiling our day with his egotistic babbling. Bridget and I are talking exclusively about others, their domestic tragedies, their literary productions, and their unsuitable careers; never a word about ourselves. I’m sure Eileen and Eddy are doing the same; and sandwiched between us, Cecil flows on fluently about his private grievances and his highly unsuitable plays. You’d think he might remember what day it is, to say the least of it. I wonder how he was brought up, don’t you, Bridget?”
“I don’t wonder; I know,” said Bridget. “His parents not only wrote for the Yellow Book, but gave it him to read in the nursery, and it corrupted him for life. He would, of course, faint if one suggested that he carried the taint of anything so antiquated, but infant impressions are hard to eradicate. I know of old that the only way to stop him is to feed him, so let’s have lunch, however unsuitable the hour and the place may be.”
Sally said, “Hurrah, let’s. In this sand-pit.” So they got into the sand-pit and produced seven packets of food, which is to say that they each produced one except Cecil, who had omitted to bring his, and undemurringly accepted a little bit of everyone else’s. They then played hide and seek, dumb crambo, and other vigorous games, because as Arnold said, “A moment’s pause, and we are undone,” until for weariness the pause came upon them, and then Cecil promptly seized the moment and produced the play, and they had to listen. Arnold succumbed, vanquished, and stretched himself on the heather.
“You have won; I give in. Only leave out the parts that are least suitable for Sally to hear.”
So, like other days in the country, the day wore through, and they caught the 5.10 back to Waterloo.
At supper that evening Eddy told the vicar about Mrs. Le Moine’s proposal.
“So she’s coming to-morrow night, with Datcherd.”
Hillier looked up sharply.
“Datcherd! That man!” He caught himself up from a scornful epithet.