“I won’t come,” she said, “unless you want me to, of course.”
Hillier protested. “It’s delightful for us, naturally—far more than we deserve. It was your time I was thinking of.”
“That will be all right. I’ll come, then, for half an hour, next Monday.” She turned to Eddy. “Will you come to lunch with us—Miss Hogan and me, you know—next Sunday? Arnold Denison’s coming, and Karl Lovinski, the violinist, and two or three other people. 3, Campden Hill Road, at 1.30.”
“Thanks; I should like to.”
Datcherd came up from the back of the room where he had been talking to Traherne, who had come in lately. They said goodbye, and the club took to billiards.
“Is Mr. Datcherd coming, too, next Monday?” Hillier inquired gloomily of Eddy.
“Oh, I expect so. I suppose it’s less of a bore for Mrs. Le Moine not to have to come all that way alone. Besides, he’s awfully interested in it all.”
“A first-class man,” said Traherne, who was an enthusiast, and had found in Datcherd another Socialist, though not a Church one.
Eddy and the curates walked back together later in the evening. Eddy felt vaguely jarred by Hillier to-night; probably because Hillier was, in his mind, opposing something, and that was the one thing that annoyed Eddy. Hillier was, he felt, opposing these delightful people who had provided the club with such a glorious evening, and were going to do so again next Monday; these brilliant people, who spilt their genius so lavishly before the poor and ignorant; these charming, friendly people, who had asked Eddy to lunch next Sunday.
What Hillier said was, “Shall you get Wilkes to take your class again on Sunday afternoon, Oliver?”