The English could not pale the
sunshine, but they could in some miraculous way slow down the hours,
dull the incidents, lengthen the meals, and make even the servants and
page-boys wear a look of boredom and propriety. The best clothes which
every one put on helped the general effect; it seemed that no lady could
sit down without bending a clean starched petticoat, and no gentleman
could breathe without a sudden crackle from a stiff shirt-front. As the
hands of the clock neared eleven, on this particular Sunday, various
people tended to draw together in the hall, clasping little red-leaved
books in their hands. The clock marked a few minutes to the hour when
a stout black figure passed through the hall with a preoccupied
expression, as though he would rather not recognise salutations,
although aware of them, and disappeared down the corridor which led from
it.
"Mr. Bax," Mrs. Thornbury whispered.
The little group of people then began to move off in the same direction
as the stout black figure. Looked at in an odd way by people who made
no effort to join them, they moved with one exception slowly and
consciously towards the stairs. Mrs. Flushing was the exception. She
came running downstairs, strode across the hall, joined the procession
much out of breath, demanding of Mrs. Thornbury in an agitated whisper,
"Where, where?"
"We are all going," said Mrs.
Pages:
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329