The conversation flagged.
'I suppose,' she then said, making another effort, 'the train was very
full.'
As this was not a question he was silent, and allowed her to suppose.
The conversation flagged.
'Why is there no fish?' he asked Chesterton, who was offering him
cutlets.
'There was no time to get any, sir,' said Chesterton.
'He might have known that,' thought Miss Entwhistle.
'You will tell the cook that I consider I have not dined unless there is
fish.'
'Yes sir,' said Chesterton.
'Goose,' thought Miss Entwhistle.
It was easier, and far less nerve-racking, to regard him indulgently as
a goose than to let oneself get angry. He was like a great cross
schoolboy, she thought, sitting there being rude; but unfortunately a
schoolboy with power.
He ate the cutlets in silence. Miss Entwhistle declined them. She had
missed her chance, she thought, when the cab was beneath her window and
all she had to do was to lean out and say, 'Wait a minute.' But then
Lucy,--ah yes, Lucy. The minute she thought of Lucy she felt she
absolutely must be friends with Everard. Incredible as it seemed to her,
and always had seemed from the first, that Lucy should love him, there
it was,--she did. It couldn't be possible to love him without any
reason. Of course not. The child knew. The child was wise and tender.
Therefore Miss Entwhistle made another attempt at resuscitating
conversation.
Watching her opportunity when Chesterton's back was receding down the
room towards the outstretched arm at the end, for she didn't mind what
Wemyss said quite so acutely if Chesterton wasn't looking, she said with
as natural a voice as she could manage, 'I'm very glad you've come, you
know. I'm sure Lucy has been missing you very much.'
'Lucy can speak for herself,' he said.
Then Miss Entwhistle concluded that conversation with Everard was too
difficult. Let it flag. She couldn't, whatever he might feel able to do,
say anything that wasn't polite in the presence of Chesterton. She
doubted whether, even if Chesterton were not there, she would be able
to; and yet continued politeness appeared in the face of his answers
impossible. She had best be silent, she decided; though to withdraw into
silence was of itself a humiliating defeat.
When she was little Miss Entwhistle used to be rude. Between the ages of
five and ten she frequently made faces at people. But not since then.
Ten was the latest. After that good manners descended upon her, and had
enveloped her ever since. Nor had any occasion arisen later in her life
in which she had even been tempted to slough them. Urbane herself, she
dwelt among urbanities; kindly, she everywhere met kindliness. But she
did feel now that it might, if only she could so far forget herself,
afford her solace were she able to say, straight at him, 'Wemyss.'
Just that word. No more. For some reason she was dying to call him
Wemyss without any Mr. She was sure that if she might only say that one
word, straight at him, she would feel better; as much relieved as she
did when she was little and made faces.
Dreadful; dreadful. She cast down her eyes, overwhelmed by the nature of
her thoughts, and said No thank you to the pudding.
'It is clear,' thought Wemyss, observing her silence and her refusal to
eat, 'where Lucy gets her sulking from.'
No more words were spoken till, dinner being over, he gave the order for
coffee in the library.
'I'll go and say good-night to Lucy,' said Miss Entwhistle as they got
up.
'You'll be so good as to do nothing of the sort,' said Wemyss.
'I--beg your pardon?' inquired Miss Entwhistle, not quite sure she could
have heard right.
At this point they were both just in front of Vera's portrait on their
way to the door, and she was looking at each of them, impartially
strangling her smile.
'I wish to speak to you in the library,' said Wemyss.
'But suppose I don't wish to be spoken to in the library?' leapt to the
tip of Miss Entwhistle's tongue.
There, however, was Chesterton,--checking, calming.