“But Jenny’s engaged to Jim Parish, isn’t she?”
“Not that it counts—he hasn’t got a bean, or any prospects either. We don’t talk of them as engaged.”
“Is she in love with him?”
“How can I possibly tell?” snapped Doris, who had had a trying afternoon with her mother, and had also been given “The Christian Year” for the second time as a present from Rose.
“Well, don’t bite my head off. I’m sure I hope she isn’t, and that she’ll captivate this young Hurst, whoever he is. Then it won’t be so bad having them here, though otherwise I should feel inclined to protest; for poor George is worn out after four services and two sermons, and it’s rather hard to expect him to talk to strangers—especially on Christmas day.”
Doris swallowed her resentment audibly—she would not condescend to quarrel with Rose, whom she looked upon much as Rose herself looked upon the Hursts, George having married rather meanly in the suburb of his first curacy.
When the Hursts arrived, they consisted of agreeable, vulgar parents, a smart, modern-looking daughter and a good-looking son. Unfortunately, the son was soon deprived of his excuse as a possible husband for Jenny by his mother’s ready reference to “Billy’s feeonsay”—but it struck both Rose and Doris separately and simultaneously that it would do just as well if the daughter Dolly married Peter. She really was an extraordinarily attractive girl, with her thick golden hair cut square upon her ears like a mediæval page’s. She was clever, too—had read all the new books and even met some of the new authors. Never, thought Rose and Doris, had wealth been so attractively baited or “trade” been so effectively disguised. It was a pity Peter was in such bad form tonight, sitting there beside her, half-silent, almost sullen.
Peter knew that Dolly Hurst was attractive, he knew that she was clever, he knew that she was rich, he knew that she had come out of the gutter—and he guessed that his people had asked her to Conster tonight in hopes that through him her riches might save the house of Alard. All this knowledge crowned by such a guess had the effect of striking him dumb, and by the time Wills and the footmen had ushered in with much ceremony a huge, burnt turkey, his neighbour had almost entirely given up her efforts to “draw him out,” and had turned in despair to George Alard on her right.
Peter sat gazing unhappily at Stella. She was next to Gervase, and was evidently amusing him, to judge by the laughter which came across the table. That was so like Stella ... she could always make you laugh. She wasn’t a bit clever, but she saw and said things in a funny way. She was looking devilish pretty tonight, too—her hair was done in such a pretty way, low over her forehead and ears, and her little head was round and shining like a bun ... the little darling ... and how well that blue frock became her—showing her dear, lovely neck ... yes, he thought he’d seen it before, but it looked as good as new. Stella was never tumbled—except just after he had kissed her ... the little sweet.
He was reacting from his thoughts of her that morning—he felt a little ashamed of them. After all, why shouldn’t she have gone to church if she wanted to? Wasn’t it better than having no religion at all, like many of the hard young women of his class who shocked his war-born agnosticism with theirs?—or than having a religion which involved the whole solar system and a diet of nuts? And as for her treatment of his family—surely her indifference was better than the eager subservience more usually found—reverence for a title, an estate, and a place in the charmed exclusiveness of the “County.” No, he would be a fool if he sacrificed Stella for any person or thing whatsoever. He had her to consider, too. She loved him, and he knew that, though no troth had yet passed between them, she considered herself bound to the future. What would she say if she knew he did not consider himself so bound?... Well, he must bind himself—or let her go free.