"I've been admiring his fancy waistcoat," said Mrs. Kestern. "Where did you get it, Paul?"
(2)
Paul was soon aware that he was in for a delightful vacation. Not many young men in their circle went to the University, and none at all, naturally, from among "the workers." Paul was, therefore, lionised. It was impossible for him not to be aware of it. He had always been a kind of natural leader, but he was now something more. A glamour sat about him. It was possibly Miss Ernest who made him aware of it first.
She was to play at the Mission Hall that first Sunday night, and Paul called for her to take her down through the dark, slummy streets. She kept him waiting some minutes, and when she came down, she was most unusually resplendent even for her.
"How do you do?" she said, shaking hands and smiling. "Do you know, I hardly dare call you Paul now?"
"Why ever not?" he asked, closing the house door behind her.
"You're so much older," she said.
"Two months, Madeline," he protested, using her name deliberately.
"Is that all? It seems to me that you've been away ages."
Paul glanced at her. She was entirely demure, and did not look at him.
"Well," he confessed, "it seems a long time to me too. It's curious how quickly Cambridge changes things. I hardly feel the same as I did two months ago."
"I suppose you've met all sorts of ripping people."
"Rather. Do you know Mr. Tressor's at our college, and I've shown him my verses. He said—he was awfully nice about them. And The Granta has taken a story of mine."
"I'm not surprised," she said. "I always thought you had it in you."
Paul was a little piqued that she took it so easily, though on reflection he perceived that this was a compliment. "It is impossible not to write at St. Mary's," he said.
"Is it very lovely?" she asked softly.
"Oh, exquisite. You must see. Do you think you could come up in the summer term? My rooms are small and high up you know, but perfect I think. And the Hall and Chapel thrill me every time I see them. If you could see the moonlight on our First Court!"
"Doesn't Claxted bore you after all that?"
Paul laughed. "It's rather quaint," he confessed. "It's really rather like another world. Do you know, I've been to the theatre."
"Have you? Oh how splendid! I'd love to go."
"Don't tell anyone," said Paul, cautiously.
"Of course not. What did you see?"
"The Mikado."
"Oh don't—I can't bear it. You make me so jealous. There you are, leading your own life, and I'm tied down to this. You don't know how things bore me at times."
Paul grew suddenly grave. "I think perhaps I am beginning to," he said, and lapsed into silence.
A lay-reader took the service, and Paul, in cassock and surplice on the platform of the little mission church, had leisure to observe. He had been there a thousand times; very dear memories linked him to it; but not till now had he looked about him critically. The place was an iron building of good size, garishly lit with gas, and at one end was a platform which could be screened off from the body of the hall. The curtains were drawn apart for this service, and Paul from where he sat, stared sideways at the varnished Table within the encircling wood railings; at the text above it; at the harmonium opposite him, with the back of Miss Ernest visible, and the side of her face, under its big hat, when she occasionally glanced at the lay-reader who was taking the prayers and announcing the hymns. Below her sat the choir of working men, and near them a couple of forms of girls who "strengthened" their efforts. Paul scanned their faces surreptitiously with amusement. There, against the wall, was old Miller who invariably started each verse a word ahead of the rest, and got steadily more flat as the hymn continued. Among the girls, he was surprised to see Miss Tillings. He supposed she had been converted in his absence. In the front row was Hodgson, a police-sergeant and a thoroughly good fellow. Next him, McArthur, who played a cornet when he knew the tune. And then the congregation, among them Mrs. Reynolds. If Edith Thornton were present, he could not see her. But he looked.
The lay-reader was occasionally doubtful about his aspirates. He also read an unduly large selection of collects. His voice, too, got on Paul's nerves. He read for the hundredth time the short, staring gilt text above the Table. "Till He Come." Except for the hymn notices, there was nothing else to catch the attention. Oh yes, I.H.S. in a monogram under the text. Paul wondered if the lay-reader knew what the letters meant. He wondered if any of them knew what they meant. Then, as the reader began the prayer for Parliament, if anyone knew what anything meant. Mrs. Reynolds, for example. "That all things may be bordered and settled by their hendeavours, upon the best and surest foundations. … " "Amen"—very loudly from old Miller. But he had heard that old Miller was a strong Conservative and concerned with politics in his off hours. Curious; it struck Paul suddenly that "the workers" never seemed to have politics. Oh, at last—Hymn 148.
Afterwards, they were all very kind. He shook hands with the departing congregation, including Hilda Tillings. Hodgson was unfeignedly glad to see him back. But outside, while Paul was smilingly making his way back to the platform by which Madeline was standing drawing on her gloves, the sergeant was rebuffed by old Miller.
"Good sermon, Miller," he said. "He's a fine young chap, and I'm glad he's back."
"Eh, eh, sergeant, but I dunno as I 'olds with all this 'ere book-larning. 'E's got more grammar nor ever, and, seems ter me, less grace."
"Doesn't it all seem rather queer to you now?" asked Madeline, as they walked home.
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "They're rattling good people," he said, enigmatically.
"Yes, of course. By the way, do you remember that the Sale of Work is to be this week. You will help me decorate our stall, won't you, Paul?"
"Rather. Is it this week? I'd forgotten. Do you want all that muslin stuff tacked up again?"
"Yes. But we'll get you a step-ladder this year. The boxes collapsed last time—remember?"
He nodded, amused. "But why don't you try a new idea?" he suggested. "Why always keep to the same old muslin?"
Madeline sighed. "We do always keep to the same old things, don't we? But what could we do? Suggest something."
"Have a background of palms and cover the framework with ivy."
"That'd be lovely. But how could we get the ivy?"
"Leave that to me. I'll get it for you."
"Will you? Thanks so much. Could I help?"
Paul glanced at her carefully. She walked gracefully, but with her eyes on the pavement. He admired her fair hair and her new hat, her trim figure. After all, why not?
"Bicycle out with me on Friday and get some," he suggested. "There's lots at Hursley."
Her voice was even as ever as she replied. "That would be delightful," she said. "Come in now and ask father, will you? Perhaps he'd come too. And I say, do let me read your verses. I'd like to so much."
Paul was suddenly shy. "Oh they're nothing," he said.
She smiled. "Mr. Tressor did not think so," she retorted. "Paul, I wonder if you're going to be a poet."
"I'm going to be a foreign missionary," he said.
"Well, you can be both. I expect abroad you would have no end of inspiration. You're not likely to be sent among utter savages. You're more likely to be made the head of some college or another, perhaps in India. You could write too. I should