"I am sure you would," she replied. "I think you might have waited until this afternoon and taken me," she reproached him. "You know how I enjoy going with you to those places."
It was not until later in the meal that he anticipated, in an admirably accidental manner, the casual remark she had intended to make about church.
"Your predictions were fulfilled," she answered; "the sermon wasn't thrilling."
He glanced at her. And instead of avoiding his eyes, she smiled into them.
"Did you see the First Citizen of Grenoble?" he inquired.
"I am sure of it," she laughed, "if he's yellow, with a drooping eye and a presence; he was kind enough to conduct me to the pew."
"Yes," he exclaimed, "that's Israel Simpson—you couldn't miss him. How I used to hate him when I was a boy! I haven't quite got over it yet. I used to outdo myself to make things uncomfortable for him when he came up here—I think it was because he always seemed to be truckling. He was ridiculously servile and polite in those days. He's changed since," added Hugh, dryly. "He must quite have forgotten by this time that the General made him."
"Is—is he so much?" said Honora.
Her husband laughed.
"Is it possible that you have seen him and still ask that?" said he. "He is Grenoble. Once the Chilterns were. He is the head of the honoured firm of Israel Simpson and Sons, the president of the Grenoble National Bank, the senior warden of the church, a director in the railway. Twice a year, in the columns of the New York newspapers dedicated to the prominent arrivals at the hotels, you may read the name of Israel Simpson of Grenoble. Three times has he been abroad, respectably accompanied by Maria, who invariably returns to read a paper on the cathedrals and art before the Woman's Club."