§ 7
The day started early at Leasan Parsonage—not that there was any particular reason why it should, but eight o’clock breakfast was Rose’s best protest against the sloppy ways of Conster, where you came down to breakfast when you liked, or had it upstairs. Mary was addicted to the latter vice, and on her first morning at Leasan came down heavy-eyed, with that especial sense of irritation and inadequacy which springs from a hurried toilet and a lukewarm bath.
“So you wear a tea-gown for breakfast,” said Rose, who wore a sports coat and a tweed skirt.
“A breakfast gown.”
“It’s the same thing. In fact you might call it a dressing-gown with those sleeves. Edna, don’t drink your tea with a spoon.”
“It’s too hot, Mother.”
“Well, leave it till it gets cooler. Don’t drink it with a spoon—you’ll be pouring it into your saucer next. George, what are your letters about today?”
“Income tax mostly—and there’s Mr. Green writing again about a Choral Celebration.”
“Well, you must be firm with him and tell him we can’t possibly have one. I told you what it would be, engaging an organist who’s used to such things—they won’t give them up.”
“I thought it might be possible to arrange it once a month, at an hour when it won’t interfere with Matins.”
“Nonsense, dear. The boys’ voices could never manage it and the men would go on strike.”
“They’re becoming fairly general, you know, even in country churches.”
“Well, I think it’s a pity. I’ve always distrusted anything that tends to make religion emotional.”
“I can’t understand anyone’s emotions—at least voluptuous emotions—being stirred by anything our choir could do.”
“George!—‘voluptuous’”—a violent shake of the head—“pas devant les enfants. Who’s your cheque from?”
“Dr. Mount. He’s very generously subscribing to the Maternity Fund. He says ‘I feel I’ve got a duty to Leasan as well as Vinehall, as I have patients in both parishes.’”
“I call that very good of him, for I know he never makes more than five hundred a year out of the practice. By the way, have you heard that Stella’s back?”
“No—since when?”
“I saw her driving through Vinehall yesterday. Edna and Lillian, you may get down now for a great treat, and have a run in the garden before Miss Cutfield comes.”
“May we go to meet Miss Cutfield?”
“If you don’t go further than the end of the lane. That’s right, darlings—say your grace—‘for what we have received,’ Edna, not ‘about to’—now run away.”
“Why are you sending away the children?” asked George.
“Because I want to talk about Stella Mount.”
“But why is Stella unfit to discuss before the children?”
“Oh, George—you must know!—it was simply dreadful the way she ran after Peter.”
“You don’t think she’s still running after him?”
“I think it’s a bad sign she’s come back.”
“Her father wanted her, I expect. That chauffeur-secretary he had was no good. Besides, I expect she’s got over her feeling for Peter now.”
“I’m sure I hope she has, but you never know with a girl like Stella. She has too many ways of getting out of things.”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Oh, confession and all that. All she has to do is to go to a Priest and he’ll let her off anything.”
“Come, come, my dear, that is hardly a fair summary of what the Prayer Book calls ‘the benefit of absolution.’ My own position with regard to confession has always been that it is at least tolerable and occasionally helpful.”
“Not the way a girl like Stella would confess,” said Rose darkly—“Oh, I don’t mean anything wrong—only the whole thing seems to me not quite healthy. I dislike the sort of religion that gets into everything, even people’s meals. I expect Stella would rather die than eat meat on Friday.”
“But surely, dear,” said George who was rather dense—“that sort would not encourage her to run after a married man.”
“Well, if you can’t use your eyes! ... she’s been perfectly open about it.”
“But she hasn’t been here at all since he married.”
“I’m talking of before that—when she was always meeting him.”
“But if he wasn’t married you can hardly accuse her of running after a married man.”
“He’s married now. Don’t be so stupid, dear.”
