“Very good, thank you. I am going to walk down town for the exercise. Will look in and see you.”
The receiver was hung up. Mr. Bang and Uncle left the house together en route to the city, and I was left to my thoughts and The Vicar of Wakefield. I soon became interested in the book, reading passages here and there, and examining the illustrations. As I glanced over the pages the story came back to me, the fine old Vicar and his foolish wife, the girls who wished to see “high life,” and their numerous disappointments, with Olivia’s tragic danger. “High Life!”—an inspiration flashed upon me. As I have said I am getting into Mr. Bang’s processes of reasoning. I am beginning to use his own philosophy against himself. No person can tell me that he fell upon this book haphazard, or because the binding was handsome, and the illustrations charming and clever. Oh, no, not Mr. Bang! He is quite too serious a person for that. Not only does he take it upon himself to out do Uncle in the effort to mould my mind, but essays to lecture me by the pen of Oliver Goldsmith. Mr. Bang, I believe I’m a match for you now.
My eyes caught the lines:
“When lovely woman stoops to conquer.”
I felt stunned. The significance of the song struck me as a blow. I had forgotten the lines, now they are established in my memory. Perhaps it was that I might fall upon those few words that prompted the gift of the volume. I wonder! And then, possibly Mr. Bang has found out I was in the Henry-the-Eighth yesterday. Oh dear! Oh dear! this conscience of mine does keep preaching. I do wish it would keep quiet. The only thing to do is not to let my mind dwell upon the past. The future—that’s it—the bright, beautiful, jolly, glorious future. I went on with the book. I read the story of George and his wanderings. It inspired thoughts of Mr. Bang. I was going to ask Mr. Bang’s opinion on George’s wanderings. Possibly a wanderer may be the best judge of a wanderer’s story.
I had just come to the realization that it was time to hunt Mumsie up and tell her the story I had framed, when she came into the drawing-room—on a tour of inspection. Her face seemed so open, so genuine, so good, so motherly that my heart sank. I felt I could not tell her a lie. “Well, dear,” was her only greeting as she came into the room, looking like radiant love. I hesitated, I could not begin my false story until I realized I had promised to go to the Hunt Club, I had promised, the fact gave me strength, courage. I smiled, and then I stretched and yawned. It was an instinct, and yet not without strategy; it suggested that I considered going out to lunch a bore. I felt the lack of enthusiasm, which lent my story credit.
“Well, my dear,” said Mumsie after I had told my fiction, “you are here to enjoy yourself, I’m sure I’m glad to see you do so.”
Dear old Mumsie, how little she deserves my treatment of her!
Before I dressed for the Hunt Club, I put my things together so that the maids might move them to the room I am to occupy during Sister Mary’s stay.
As I walked into town the idea impressed itself on me that there was no reason why I should not have told Mumsie I was invited to the Hunt Club by some friends—she goes there herself.