Railing tightened his lips at the flippant remark, and Winnie, watching him, was ashamed of the frivolous atmosphere into which she had brought him. It seemed to her suddenly that these people among whom till now she had lived contentedly, were but play-actors repeating carelessly the words they had learnt by rote. That drawing-room, with its smart chintzes and fashionable Sheraton, was a stuffy prison in which she could not breathe. She knew a hundred parlours which differed from this one hardly at all: the same flowers were on the same tables, arranged in the same way, the same books lay here and there, the same periodicals. In one and all the same life was led; and it was artificial, conventional, untrue. She and her friends were performing an elaborate but trivial play, some of the scenes whereof took place in a dining-room, some in a ball-room, others in the park, and some in fashionable shops. But round this vast theatre was a great stone wall, and outside it men and women and children swarmed in vast numbers, and lived and loved and starved and worked and died.
Bertram turned to Canon Spratte.
“I see that one of our most ardent champions in the cause of temperance has just died,” he said.
“Bishop Andover?” exclaimed the Canon. “Very sad, very sad! I knew him well. Sophia is of opinion that he was the most learned of our bishops.”
“He’ll be a great loss.”
“Oh, a great loss!” cried the Canon, with conviction. “I was terribly distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“Are there any golf-links at Barchester?” asked Lord Spratte, with a glance at his brother.
Railing looked at him with surprise, naturally not catching the purport of this question.
“I really don’t know.” Then he gave Canon Spratte a smile. “I hear it’s being suggested that you may go there.”
Canon Spratte received the suggestion without embarrassment.