"I believe he comes from Leighton Buzzard," she observed by way of
preliminary explanation.
"In these days of rapid and convenient travel," said Clovis, who
was dispersing a colony of green-fly with visitations of cigarette
smoke, "to come from Leighton Buzzard does not necessarily denote
any great strength of character. It might only mean mere
restlessness. Now if he had left it under a cloud, or as a
protest against the incurable and heartless frivolity of its
inhabitants, that would tell us something about the man and his
mission in life."
"What does he do?" pursued Mrs. Troyle magisterially.
"He edits the CATHEDRAL MONTHLY," said her hostess, "and he's
enormously learned about memorial brasses and transepts and the
influence of Byzantine worship on modern liturgy, and all those
sort of things. Perhaps he is just a little bit heavy and
immersed in one range of subjects, but it takes all sorts to make
a good house-party, you know. You don't find him TOO dull, do
you?"
"Dullness I could overlook," said the aunt of Clovis; "what I
cannot forgive is his making love to my maid."
"My dear Mrs. Troyle," gasped the hostess, "what an extraordinary
idea! I assure you Mr.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224