“We are to have an address by an Indian bishop,” she told them. “He is on his way to England by China and Japan, and is staying with our dear rector, Mr Murchison. Such a treat I expect it will be.”
“What I am dying to know,” said Miss Filkin, in a sprightly way, “is whether he is black or white!”
Mrs Milburn then left the room, and shortly afterward Miss Filkin thought she could not miss the bishop either, conveying the feeling that a bishop was a bishop, of whatever colour. She stayed three minutes longer than Mrs Milburn, but she went. The Filkin tradition, though strong, could not hold out entirely against the unwritten laws, the silently claimed privileges, of youth in Elgin. It made its pretence and vanished.
Even as the door closed the two that were left looked at one another with a new significance. A simpler relation established itself between them and controlled all that surrounded them; the very twilight seemed conscious with it; the chairs and tables stood in attentive harmony.
“You know,” said Dora, “I hate your going, Lorne!”
She did indeed seem moved, about the mouth, to discontent. There was some little injury in the way she swung her foot.
“I was hoping Mr Fulke wouldn’t get better in time; I was truly!”
The gratitude in young Murchison’s eyes should have been dear to her. I don’t know whether she saw it; but she must have been aware that she was saying what touched him, making her point.
“Oh, it’s a good thing to go, Dora.”
“A good thing for you! And the regatta coming off the first week in June, and a whole crowd coming from Toronto for it. There isn’t another person in town I care to canoe with, Lorne, you know perfectly well!”