Katherine glanced from Mrs. Darling to myself. I foresaw that the scene would be reproduced for the benefit of her guests next time she gave a dinner party. She had already grasped the situation and got Mrs. D. You know Katherine's powers of mimicry. Well, I don't grudge her the fun. She's entitled to a little return for the two hundred a year she allows me, and she has a pretty dull time with her eternal round of so-called gaieties.
"No, we 'aven't bin to Kensington," agreed Mrs. D., "and wot's more, you know quite well, sir, we ain't goin'," with a warning glance in my direction. "It's quite a haccident your ladyship finds me 'ere with your brother," the old lady went on. "I little thought when I come out this mornin' ter buy a blouse I should meet Mr. Tallenach in the shop." Oh, Mrs. Darling, and I had imagined you a truthful woman!
"Fate arranges such meetings for us," declared Katherine fervently, and her self-congratulation was obviously genuine. I had provided her with that most desirable thing in life, a sensation, and it is long since she bestowed on me any invitation so genuine as the one she gave for dinner that night.
But I had no intention of satisfying her curiosity, and excused myself on the plea that my dinner jacket had gone to the tailor's to be pressed. She said there was no need to dress as she would be alone, and Mrs. D. signalled frantically to me to accept.
I, however, persisted in my refusal, and, with a growing feeling for the dramatic possibilities of the situation, mentioned that, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Darling and I usually went to the pictures on Wednesday evening. There is no telling to what further lengths I might have gone had not Mrs. D. began to display symptoms of apoplexy, whilst Katherine's desire for my company became so urgent that, to get rid of her at the moment, I promised to go to Curzon Street on the morrow.
"I see this comin' all along," remarked Mrs. D., with tragic emphasis, as we made our way down Cheapside. "You bin and done it with a vengeance now, sir. I drempt I 'ad a tooth out last night, and that's a bad sign. I shouldn't wonder if the Countess didn't wash 'er 'ands of you after this!"
I reassured the old lady by telling her the Countess hadn't been so gracious for years—not since the occasion on which she tried to manœuvre me into marriage with a rich woman old enough to be my mother.
In Bishopsgate Street we came to a halt before the giant pair of spectacles placed over the fronts of the two ancient shops which stand in the porch of St. Ethelburga. There is no more gracious surprise in the whole city than that bit of antiquity which breaks the long line of new buildings in Bishopsgate. So unexpectedly does it occur, and so unobtrusive are the quaint little shops in their unique situation, that thousands of people must pass the place daily without noticing them, or being aware that behind them is the smallest of the eight churches that escaped the Great Fire. From the opposite side of the road one can see the west front of the church rising behind the jutting first floor of the shops, and an inscription that this is "The Church of St. Ethelburga" invites the curious to cross the road and pass through the gateway leading to the tunnel-like entrance.
The charm of this hidden sanctuary will reward him for lingering by the way. It has an atmosphere all its own, entirely unlike the atmosphere of the typical City churches, with their chill air of having survived the worship of long dead days. Tucked away so cosily and standing its ground so sturdily amidst the pushing, elbowing crowd of new buildings all round, St. Ethelburga's has ready for each person who enters a glimpse of beauty to refresh the eyes, and a garment of peace in which to enwrap the spirit.
You pass under the low west gallery, and looking down the nave, with its pointed arches and clustered columns, see through the fretted screen at the east end, a red lamp burning dimly against the dull blue altar hangings. The windows of the nave are almost entirely blocked up, and pictures hang on the old grey walls. Through the clerestory a chill light mingles with the yellow gleam of the electric burners below, and the little building is full of soft shadows, picturesque vistas, and mystery.