it is uphill work! If he has to labour at the oar like this from now until dessert, there will not be much left of him at the end. Well, never mind! it is all in the day's work; only he will ask Lady Roupell quietly not to inflict this impossible dummy upon him again.
'We came down upon you in great force, I remember – it was on a Sunday – Lady Roupell, Freddy, the Bentincks, the Harboroughs.'
He pauses, discouraged, despite himself. She has been leisurely sipping her soup, and now lays down her spoon, looking straight before her. He heaves a loud sigh, but not even that induces her to look round at him.
'Lady Roupell often brings people down on Sunday afternoons,' she says, in an indifferent voice, which implies that it is a quite impossible feat for her memory to separate the one insignificant Sunday to which he alludes from all or any others. In point of fact, she remembers it perfectly, and the recollection of it adds a double chill to her tone.
On that very Sunday afternoon did not this man and his Lady Betty flagrantly lose themselves for an hour in an orchard six yards square? Did not Lady Betty, without leave asked or given, eat all the mulberries that were ripe on Peggy's one tree? Did not she, in rude horse-play pelting a foolish guardsman with green apples, break a bell-glass that sheltered the picotee cuttings cherished of Jacob's and of Peggy's souls?
Ignorant of the offensive reminiscences he has stirred up, Mr. Talbot blunders on:
'I remember you had a tame – '
He stops. He cannot for the life of him recollect what the tame animal was that he was taken to see. He can only recall that it was some beast not usually kept as a pet, and that it lived in a house in the stable-yard. Of course if he pauses she will supply the word, and his lapse of memory need never be perceived.
But he has reckoned without his host. She has indeed turned her face a little towards him, and says 'Yes?' expectantly.
It is clear that she has not the least intention of helping him; and is it, or is it not, his fancy that there is a slight ill-natured tremor about that corner of her mouth which is nearest him?
'A tame – badger,' suggests he desperately.
But the moment that he has uttered the word he knows that it was not a badger.
'A tame badger!' repeats she slowly, and again gazing straight before her; 'yes, what a nice pet!'
She is not shy at all, nor even stupid. She is only rude and malevolent. But he will not give her the satisfaction of letting her see that he perceives it.
'Perhaps Lady Roupell will have your permission to bring us down to see you next Sunday, when I may have an opportunity of stroking my old friend the badger's' (he smiles, as if he had known all along that it was not a badger) 'head once again.'
'I do not know what Lady Roupell's plans for next Sunday are,' replies she snubbingly; and so turns, with a decided movement of head and shoulder, towards her other neighbour, Mr. Evans, who, however, is not nearly so grateful for her attentions as he should be.
Mr. Evans has the poor and Peggy Lambton always with him, but he has not a haunch of fat buck-venison more than three times a year. In everyday life he is more than willing to give his share of the Vicarage dinner to such among the sick and afflicted of his flock as can be consoled and supported by underdone shoulders of mutton and batter-puddings; but on the rare occasions when the opportunity offers of having his palate titillated by the delicate cates of the higher civilisation, he had very much rather be left in peace to enjoy them. He has no fault to find in this respect with Prue Lambton, to whom, as having taken her in to dinner, he might be supposed to have some conversational obligations.
Why, then, cannot Peggy, to whom he owes nothing, be equally considerate? Perhaps Peggy's heart speaks for him. At all events, after one or two vain shots at the harvest-home and the Workhouse tea, she desists from the futile effort to lead him into chat; but subtly remains sitting half turned towards him, as if talking to him, so as to baffle any further ventures – if, indeed, he have the spirit to make such – on the part of her other neighbour. Her tongue being idle, she allows her eyes to travel. It is true that the thick forest of oats and poppies which waves over the board renders the sight of the table's other side about as difficult as that of the coast of France; but at least she can see her fat hostess at the head of the table, and her slim host at the foot. Freddy Ducane is in his glory – something fair and female on either hand. On his right Lady Betty, who, being a duke's daughter, takes precedence of the other smart woman, who was only a miss before she blossomed into a viscountess; on his left, to ensure himself against the least risk of having any dull or vacuous moments during his dinner, he has arranged Prue Lambton – 'his little friend Prue.' Beyond the mere fact of proximity – in itself, of course, a splendid boon – she does not, so far, seem to be much the gainer by her position.
However, he snatches a moment every now and then to explain to her – Peggy knows it as well as if she heard his words – how entirely a matter of irksome duty and hospitality are his whispers to Lady Betty, his tender comments upon her clothes, and long bunglings with the clasp of her pearls. And, judging by her red-stained cheeks, her empty plate (which of us in his day has not been too superbly happy to eat?), and the trembling smiles that rush out to meet his lame explanations, Prue believes him. Poor little Prue!
Margaret sighs sadly and impatiently, and looks away – looks away to find John Talbot's eyes fastened upon her with an expression of such innocent and genuine curiosity that she asks involuntarily:
'Why do you look at me?'
'I beg your pardon a thousand times!' he answers apologetically. 'I was only wondering, to be quite sincere – by the bye, do you like people to be quite sincere?'
'That depends,' replies Peggy cautiously.
'Well, then, I must risk it. I was wondering why on earth you had thought it worth your while to snub me in the way you have been doing.'
She does not answer, but again looks straight before her.
How very offensive in a woman to look straight before her! She ought to be quite certain of the perfection of her profile before she presents it so persistently to you.
Shall he tell her so? That would make her look round pretty quickly.
'I was trying to see whether I could not regard it in the light of a compliment,' continues he audaciously.
'That would not be easy,' replies she drily.
'It was something that you should have thought me worth wasting your powder and shot upon,' he answers.
Certainly her profile is anything but perfect; her chin projects too much. In her old age, if she had a hook nose (which she has not), she would be a mere nut-cracker.
Shall he tell her that? How many disagreeable things he might tell her! It puts him into quite a good humour with her to think of them.
'Now, about that badger, for instance,' says he.
But at that, against her will, she laughs outright.
'Dear little beast!' she cries maliciously; 'so playful and affectionate! such a pet!'
She has laughed. That is something gained, at all events. It is not a nice friendly laugh. On the contrary, it is a very rude, ill-natured one: she is obviously a rude, ill-natured girl; but it is a laugh.
'You can see for yourself,' pursues he, holding out one of the menus for her
