"Charles," said Enid plaintively, "this is the curry—here."
"What? Then fire ahead with it.... But where's Harriet disappeared to?"
"She is fetching the cutlets—and the other things. Do sit down."
"Oh, Harriet, here you are.... Where the dickens have you hidden the wine? This seems to be a very dry party;" and he gave his stupid cackling laugh just behind Mrs. Marsden's back. "Oh, here we are. Now then, ladies and gentlemen, hock, claret, whisky and soda? Name your tipple. And please excuse short-comings."
But in truth there were no short-comings. Poor Enid had tried so hard to have everything really nice—the best glass and china, pretty flowers, and dainty appetising food, sufficient for twenty people and good enough for princes. And she looked so charming at the head of the table—her face rounder and plumper than it used to be, her figure fuller, her complexion delicately glowing, her eyes shining softly,—the young mother, in what should have been the hour of her undimmed glory. Mrs. Marsden, as she listened to the cackling fool behind her chair and saw the shadow of pain take the brightness from Enid's face, bridled and grew warm.
"Whisky and soda, Mrs. B?... Father, put a name to it."
Mrs. Bulford—a hardy brunette, richly attired, and undoubtedly handsome, but older than she looked in her photographs—was to be the other godmother. She and the host were evidently on excellent terms, understanding each other's form of humour, possessing little secret jokes of their own—so that every time Charles cackled she had a suffocating laugh ready. The hostess called her "Mamie," and even "Mamie dear"; but Mrs. Marsden surmised that Enid did not really like her, and had not wanted her for a godmother.
Old Mr. Kenion—the vicar of Chapel Norton—was white-haired, thin, and fragile; and Mrs. Marsden thought he seemed to be a good, weak, over-burdened man. His manner was mild, courteous, kindly. Mrs. Kenion was shabbily pretentious, with faded airs of fashion and dull echoes of distinguished voices. They had brought one of their daughters with them—a spinster of uncertain age in a tailor-made gown and a masculine collar. The curate of the small stone church made up the party.
But old Mr. Kenion would read the christening service, and not this local clergyman.
"Yes," he said, mildly beaming across the table at Mrs. Marsden, "I am to have the privilege to hold my grandchild at the font."