But there was no accounting for taste; and if a strapping girl, with a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, chose to make an alliance with his family, he was willing to overlook a parent who would not let an indulgent world forget his indecent connection with honest labour. Canon Spratte had that peculiar charm of manner which led people, after ten minutes’ conversation, to feel they had known him all their lives; and freeing himself from the dowager, who had hitherto absorbed his attention, he turned to Miss Durant. He laid himself out to fascinate her, and they made great friends in the hour they sat side by side.
When the remaining guests had gone their ways, the Canon asked Mrs. Fitzherbert if he might stay a little longer.
“Of course,” she said. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. You may smoke a cigarette.”
The day was warm and the sun shone brightly. Pale blinds kept out the brilliancy, and delicately softened the light in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s drawing-room. It looked singularly restful to Canon Spratte with its gay chintzes and masses of summer flowers. It formed a fit and elegant frame for Mrs. Fitzherbert, who looked handsomer than ever in an exquisite gown, all flounces and furbelows. Its airy grace filled him with content, and he thought that feminine society was really very delightful. The world was a good place when you could sit in a pleasant drawing-room, away from the bustle of ecclesiastical labours, on a summer afternoon, and talk to an old friend who was also a fascinating woman. Yet at home there was much to make him irritable. For one thing he expected hourly a communication from the Prime Minister, offering the vacant See; and every time the bell of the street-door rang loudly, his heart leaped to his mouth. Almost unconsciously he assumed an attitude of dignified indifference, such as Cincinnatus at his plough might have used when the officers of the Republic came towards him. But Lord Stonehenge, dilatory as ever, hesitated to make an appointment. Winnie was an even greater source of annoyance. She made no sign of yielding to his wishes. She went out at all hours and none knew whither. She seemed to flaunt her legal independence in her father’s indignant face. At home she was silent, frightened and sullen. Canon Spratte pointedly ignored her. He had the useful, humiliating art of looking at people without seeing them, and was able to stare at his daughter blankly as though the space she occupied were empty.
He told Mrs. Fitzherbert now the misfortune that had befallen his house, and it was a bitter confession that he had been too quick in his calculations. Mrs. Fitzherbert could not conceal a smile.
“It’s really very romantic, you know. It reminds me of that poem of dear Lord Tennyson’s.”
“Dear Lord Tennyson hadn’t a marriageable daughter,” retorted the Canon, with some asperity.
“Love is so rare in this world,” she hazarded, “When two young things are fond of one another, don’t you think it’s best to let them marry, whatever the disadvantages?”
“My dear lady, the man isn’t even a gentleman.”
“But we have it dinned into our ears that kind hearts are more than coronets.”