At three minutes past three Gertrude Canterton was on the platform in the marquee in Lady Marchendale’s grounds, and making the short speech with which she was to open the Primrose League fête. Short speeches did not accord with Gertrude Canterton’s methods of persuasion. She always had a very great deal to say, enjoyed saying it, and never paused to wonder whether people wanted to listen to her opinions. She spoke for twenty minutes in her thin and metallic voice, eagerly and earnestly, and keeping up that queer, sinuous wriggling of the trunk and shoulders that had made some wag christen her “The Earnest Eel.”
The country crowd was bored after the first five minutes. Lord Parallax was to speak later, and the people had grown too accustomed to listening to Mrs. Canterton. There were a number of children sandwiched in among their elders, children who became either vacantly depressed or assertively restless. The real fun of the day was waiting, the roundabout, the races, the mugs of tea, and the buns.
Two men in flannel suits and Panama hats stood just outside the marquee doorway.
“Where’s Parallax?”
“Up at the house, playing croquet with Grace Abercorn. I promised to fetch him, when the star turn was due. They’ll think he has just rushed down from town by motor.”
“Listen to the indefatigable woman.”
“You know, she might be doing some sort of ultra-subtle Maud Allan business, if you put her in beads.”
“My dear chap!”
“Fifteen minutes already, and we expected three. It is no use trying to stop her. She’s like a soda water bottle with the cork out. You can’t do anything till all the gas has escaped.”
“I’ll just go down and see how the Sports Committee are getting along. Oh, by the way, I’ve booked you and Ethel for our houseboat at Henley.”