My first impression of the curious change in demeanour shown towards me by
the Jervaises and their friends at lunch was that it had no existence
outside my own recently embittered mind. I thought that I was avoiding
them, not that they were avoiding me. It was not until I condescended to
come down from my pinnacle of conscious superiority that I realised my own
disgrace.
My effort at conversation with Mrs. Jervaise was a mere act of politeness.
"I'm afraid you were rather late this morning," I said. It was not,
perhaps, a tactful remark, but I could think of nothing else. All the
church-party were stiff with the slightly peevish righteousness of those
who have fulfilled a duty contrary to their real inclinations.
Mrs. Jervaise lifted her nose savagely. No doubt her head went with it,
but only the nose was important.
"Very late, Mr. Melhuish," she said, stared at me as if debating whether
she would not instantly give me the coup de grace, and then dipped again
to the threat of the imaginary doorway.
"Mr. Sturton give you a good sermon?" I continued, still suffering from
the delusion that I was graciously overlooking their obvious inferiority
to myself.
"He is a very able man; very able," Mrs. Jervaise said, this time without
looking up.
"You are lucky to have such a good man as vicar," I said. "Sometimes there
is--well, a lack of sympathy between the Vicarage and the Hall. I
remember--the case isn't quite parallel, of course, but the moral is much
the same--I remember a curate my father had once..."
Now, my story of that curate is thoroughly sound. It is full of incident
and humour and not at all derogatory to the prestige of the church. I have
been asked for it, more than once, by hostesses. And though I am rather
sick of it myself, I still fall back on it in cases of such urgency as I
judged the present one to be. I thought that I had been lucky to get so
easy an opening to produce the anecdote with relevance, and I counted on
it for a good five minutes relief from the constraint of making polite
conversation.
Mrs. Jervaise's response began to open my eyes to the state of the new
relations that now existed between myself and the rest of the party. She
did not even allow me to begin. She ignored my opening entirely, and
looking down the table towards her husband said, "Mr. Sturton preached
from the tenth of Hebrews, 'Let us hold fast the profession of our faith
without wavering.' Quite a coincidence, wasn't it?"
"Indeed? Yes, quite a coincidence," Mr. Jervaise replied without
enthusiasm. He did not look as cheerful as I had anticipated, but he wore
the air of a man who has had at least a temporary reprieve.
"Olive and I were quite struck by it; weren't we, dear?" Mrs. Jervaise
continued, dragging in her daughter's evidence.
"Yes, it was very odd," Olive agreed tepidly.
I never knew what the coincidence was, but I judge from Mrs. Jervaise's
insistence that it was something perfectly futile.
I glanced across at Hughes, and guessed that he was not less bored than I
was myself, but when I caught his eye he looked hastily away.