“Yes, but all the same I have an idea that she raised those thin eyebrows of hers and in that quiet, meek voice, asked: ‘Winnie Spratte, Harry? Do you think the Sprattes are quite up to your form?’ ”
“I should think it extremely snobbish if she said anything of the sort,” retorted the Canon, with all his old fire.
The conversation dropped, but he could not help it if some of these observations rankled. Lionel, on whom depended the future of the stock, proposed to marry a brewer’s daughter, and Winnie was positively engaged to a man of no family. It looked indeed as though his children were sinking back into the ranks whence with so much trouble his father had emerged. Nor did the second Earl conceal his scorn for the family honours. His coronet, with the strawberry leaves and the lifted pearls, he kicked hither and thither, verbally, like a football; and the ermine cloak was a scarlet rag which never ceased to excite his derision.
“I’m the only member of the family who has a proper sense of his dignity,” sighed the Canon.
But when he heard that Winnie, on her return from Peckham Rye, had gone to her room with a headache, he chased away these gloomy thoughts. Even paternal affection could not prevent him from rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
“I thought she wouldn’t be very well after a visit to Mr. Railing’s mamma,” he said.
When she entered the drawing-room he went towards her with outstretched hands.
“Ah, my love, I see you’ve returned safely from the wilds of Peckham. I hope you encountered no savage beasts in those unfrequented parts.”
Winnie, with a little groan of exhaustion, sank into a chair. Her head was aching still and her eyes were red with many tears. Canon Spratte assumed his most affable manner. His voice was a marvel of kindly solicitude, and only in a note here and there was perceptible a suspicion of banter.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself, my pet. You know the only wish I have in the world is to make you happy. And did your prospective mother-in-law take you to her capacious bosom?”