her face seemed all teeth and eyes, her references to her sister and brother were uncharitable. For all her cleverness and culture, she was probably one of those soulless, atheistical women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli. It was surprising (and alarming) that she should suddenly say: “I do hope that you’ll come in and have some tea.”
“I do hope that you’ll come in and have some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged you so far out of your way.”
They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. To the right the fantastic skyline of the flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latchkey. Of course she had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule, she leant over the area and tapped at the dining-room window.
“Helen! Let us in!”
“All right,” said a voice.
“You’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.”
“Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door. “Oh, what’s that? Do come in! How do you do?”
“Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took this gentleman’s umbrella away from Queen’s Hall, and he has had the trouble of coming for it.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Helen, all her hair flying. She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. “I do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine’s a nobbly—at least, I
think
it is.”
The light was turned on, and they began to search the hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries.
“Don’t you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman’s silk top-hat. Yes, she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I’ve knocked the In and Out card down. Where’s Frieda? Tibby, why don’t you ever—? No, I can’t remember what I was going to say. That wasn’t it, but do tell the maids to hurry tea up. What about this umbrella?” She opened it. “No, it’s all gone along the seams. It’s an appalling umbrella. It must be mine.”
But it was not.
He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk.
“But if you will stop—” cried Margaret. “Now, Helen, how stupid you’ve been!”
“Whatever have I done?”
“Don’t you see that you’ve frightened him away? I meant him to stop to tea. You oughtn’t to talk about stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes getting so miserable. No, it’s not a bit of good now.” For Helen had darted out into the street, shouting: “Oh, do stop!”
“I dare say it is all for the best,” opined Mrs. Munt. “We know nothing about the young man, Margaret, and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little things.”
But Helen cried: “Aunt Juley, how can you! You make me more and more ashamed. I’d rather he
had
been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons than that I—Well, I must shut the front door, I suppose. One more failure for Helen.”
“Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as rent,” said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not understand, she added: “You remember ‘rent.’ It was one of father’s words—rent to the ideal, to his own faith in human nature. You remember how he would trust strangers, and if they fooled him he would say: ‘It’s better to be fooled than to be suspicious’—that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-confidence trick is the work of the devil.”
“I remember something of the sort now,” said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add: “It was lucky that your father married a wife with money.” But this was unkind, and she contented herself with: “Why, he might have stolen the little Ricketts picture
“I do hope that you’ll come in and have some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged you so far out of your way.”
They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. To the right the fantastic skyline of the flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latchkey. Of course she had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule, she leant over the area and tapped at the dining-room window.
“Helen! Let us in!”
“All right,” said a voice.
“You’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.”
“Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door. “Oh, what’s that? Do come in! How do you do?”
“Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took this gentleman’s umbrella away from Queen’s Hall, and he has had the trouble of coming for it.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Helen, all her hair flying. She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. “I do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine’s a nobbly—at least, I
think
it is.”
The light was turned on, and they began to search the hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries.
“Don’t you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman’s silk top-hat. Yes, she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I’ve knocked the In and Out card down. Where’s Frieda? Tibby, why don’t you ever—? No, I can’t remember what I was going to say. That wasn’t it, but do tell the maids to hurry tea up. What about this umbrella?” She opened it. “No, it’s all gone along the seams. It’s an appalling umbrella. It must be mine.”
But it was not.
He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk.
“But if you will stop—” cried Margaret. “Now, Helen, how stupid you’ve been!”
“Whatever have I done?”
“Don’t you see that you’ve frightened him away? I meant him to stop to tea. You oughtn’t to talk about stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes getting so miserable. No, it’s not a bit of good now.” For Helen had darted out into the street, shouting: “Oh, do stop!”
“I dare say it is all for the best,” opined Mrs. Munt. “We know nothing about the young man, Margaret, and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little things.”
But Helen cried: “Aunt Juley, how can you! You make me more and more ashamed. I’d rather he
had
been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons than that I—Well, I must shut the front door, I suppose. One more failure for Helen.”
“Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as rent,” said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not understand, she added: “You remember ‘rent.’ It was one of father’s words—rent to the ideal, to his own faith in human nature. You remember how he would trust strangers, and if they fooled him he would say: ‘It’s better to be fooled than to be suspicious’—that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-confidence trick is the work of the devil.”
“I remember something of the sort now,” said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add: “It was lucky that your father married a wife with money.” But this was unkind, and she contented herself with: “Why, he might have stolen the little Ricketts picture
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