While Janet was pouring out the tea, Edwin restored Ogilvie to his place
in the bookcase, feeling that he had had enough of Ogilvie.
"Not so many books here now as there used to be!" he said, vacuously
amiable, as he shut the glass door which had once protected the
treasures of Tom Orgreave.
For a man who had been specially summoned to the task of cheering up, it
was not a felicitous remark. In the first place it recalled the days
when the house, which was now a hushed retreat where settled and precise
habits sheltered themselves from a changing world, had been an arena for
the jolly, exciting combats of outspread individualities. And in the
second place it recalled a slight difficulty between Tom and his father.
Osmond Orgreave was a most reasonable father, but no father is perfect
in reasonableness, and Osmond had quite inexcusably resented that Tom on
his marriage should take away all Tom's precious books. Osmond's
attitude had been that Tom might in decency have left, at any rate, some
of the books. It was not that Osmond had a taste for book-collecting:
it was merely that he did not care to see his house depleted and
bookcases empty. But Tom had shown no compassion. He had removed not
merely every scrap of a book belonging to himself, but also two
bookcases which he happened to have paid for. The weight of public
opinion was decidedly against Mr Orgreave, who had to yield and affect
pleasantness. Nevertheless books had become a topic which was avoided
between father and son.
"Ah!" muttered Mr Orgreave, satirical, in response to Edwin's
clumsiness.
"Suppose we have another gas lighted," Janet suggested. The servant had
already lighted several burners and drawn the blinds and curtains.
Edwin comprehended that he had been a blundering fool, and that Janet's
object was to create a diversion. He lit the extra burner above her
head. She sat there rather straight and rather prim between her
parents, sticking to them, smoothing creases for them, bearing their
weight, living for them. She was the kindliest, the most dignified, the
most capable creature; but she was now an old maid. You saw it even in
the way she poured tea and dropped pieces of sugar into the cups. Her
youth was gone; her complexion was nearly gone. And though in one
aspect she seemed indispensable, in another the chief characteristic of
her existence seemed to be a tragic futility. Whenever she came
seriously into Edwin's thoughts she saddened him. Useless for him to
attempt to be gay and frivolous in that house!
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