“We’re quite a party,” she said. “It is really too big so shortly after⸺” she hesitated: “while we are in mourning. Mr. Allery is here, with his wife and daughter.”
When they sat down to dinner that night there was indeed an atmosphere of quiet enjoyment far removed from the horror of the past days. Mr. Allery had had a word with Collins.
“I came as a duty. I was so much afraid that the poor little girl would mope. It’s no earthly good crying over spilt milk. She has all her life before her. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I think her old aunt is far from an ideal chaperon. My wife is used to all occasions.”
“You mean?”
“You’ll see, my boy,” said the old lawyer with a chuckle, “The course of true love is running smoother.”
Then the ladies had come in.
The dinner was a merry one; Allery had a fund of humour culled from his long experience, and he found an able supporter in Collins. Sanders was no fool, and now that he was absolutely happy he took his part. He had taken Miss Allery in, but Collins noted that he was sitting next to Mabel. Collins had taken in the Aunt, who was only a cousin of Sir James. He was sitting with his back to the windows from which the setting sun still shone into the room, for they had dined early. In front of him was a great fire-place, and over the mantel was a large portrait of Sir James in court dress.
“Fancy,” Sanders was saying, “I find Mr. Collins spends his spare time reading the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ ”
“And very good taste, too,” said Allery. “It contains some of the most glorious pieces of English ever written.
“Not one of our modern writers can touch it.”