Paul grew grave. "I'd prefer to be among savages," he said.
"Why? Besides, do you think that's altogether right? God didn't give you your gifts for you to waste them. And they want the other sort of missionary just as much."
"I suppose they do," said Paul. "And if I lived that sort of life, I should marry. One could. I've always doubted if a pioneer missionary ought to marry."
Madeline nodded. "I think you're right. And besides, the wives of that sort of missionary do get so awfully dowdy. I suppose it doesn't matter what you wear among savages, and so they don't care any more about dressing. I'm afraid I could never be so good as all that."
Paul laughed. "Honestly, I can't see you dowdy, Madeline," he said.
She smiled, but said nothing. He glanced at her shyly. "Summery frocks and Indian Society would suit you," he said.
"Do you think so?" she said easily.
"Yes. By the way, you just must come up for the Mays. Will you promise?"
"I'll come if I possibly can," she said, "and thank you ever so much for asking me. Here we are. Now come in and settle with father about the ivy, will you?"
(3)
The Annual Sale of Work was the parochial Feast of Claxted. A distinguished visitor was always invited to open it; the stalls through which one wandered, were so many courses, so to speak; and in the evening, there were always songs, a few speeches, and light refreshments. So far as the Mission Hall of the church was concerned, only the more superior members were expected to put in an appearance, and these chiefly in the evening. Thus Hodgson always came, but not old Miller. The Christian Endeavour arranged little side-show concerts from six o'clock onwards, at half-hour intervals, but even the Endeavourers were not seen in the afternoon. During those sacred hours, the carriages drew up outside the Parish Room in Edward Street, and there descended from them the elite and the wealthy of the congregation. These, entering the half-empty room, caused a ripple of comment to run through the stall-holders proportionate to their importance. "Old Mrs. Wherry," Mrs. Ernest would whisper enthusiastically to Madeline. "Oh, my dear, try to get her here at once. She always spends such a lot, and she's so blind, she can't see what she buys. She just decides to spend so much, I believe, and when it's spent, no one can get another penny out of her. Do fetch her here."
"How can I, mother?" retorted Madeline, on this occasion.
"I'll try," said Paul, good-humouredly, and strolled off in her direction.
"Madeline, I saw you fastening that ivy with Paul," said Mrs. Ernest, as he went.
"Well, mother?"
"My dear, anyone might have seen. I thought I saw Mrs. Cator watching. And you know what she is likely to say."
Madeline tossed her pretty head. "I know what I am about, mother," she said.
"I hope you do," sighed Mrs. Ernest. Her husband was a good man, but without distinction, and truth to tell, she was tired of living on a curate's stipend.
Paul came up with Mrs. Wherry. The old lady had been genuinely glad to see him, and, since her own sons had been at Cambridge, she showed him caustic good humour. "You want me to spend my money here, I suppose, do you? Well, it doesn't much matter to me. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ernest. I see you've adopted a system of pickets. Or is it Miss Ernest? Still everything's fair in love and war, and certainly a Sale of Work is war. What have you? I shall only buy things that I can send elsewhere."
Paul stood chatting with Madeline again while the old lady did her shopping. A little hum of talk covered their conversation, which was broken now and again as someone nodded and spoke to him, or he was sent off by his father on some trivial errand. He was not as bored as usual, but drifted back to the ivy-hung stall fairly regularly. At half past four he suggested tea. "You can go, Madeline," said Mrs. Ernest. "I'll wait a little. Someone must watch the stall."
"Come on then," said Paul, catching Madeline's eye, and she moved off with him.
Formerly it had been hard to get Madeline for tea. Young men, who had recently started going to the City, used to drop in about this time and take her off. There were one or two about now, but she had no eyes for them. He piloted her into a corner, and went to get the tea from the buffet which was presided over by Mrs. Cator herself. She kept him chatting while a fresh pot was made, and he was steering his way back to Madeline with the little tray when he saw Edith.
It was early for her, for she arrived, as a rule, with the rest of the Endeavourers. There she was, however, with her mother in a black dress and a bead bonnet. Mrs. Thornton was well known in the congregation. She aspired to rather a high estate, which was impossible for her, socially, with her husband's shop in Edward Street.
Paul watched Edith bring her in. The girl was quiet and self-possessed, and did not, apparently, see him. She steered her mother to a little table and sat down by her. One of the Miss Cators, acting waitress, went up for the order.
"Here's the tea," said Paul. "Sorry I was so long. You must want it."
"I do. Oh, and you've got eclairs! How delicious; I love them."
"I remembered that you did at the school-treat last August."
"That terrible day! Do you remember how Mrs. Thornton would have lunch at our table? Look—there she is. I do hope she doesn't see you. She's sure to come over if she does. ''Ow do you do, Mr. Paul, and 'ow do you like Cambridge? We're glad to see you back, I'm sure.'"
Paul sat down deliberately in such a position that he could see Edith. "Don't, Madeline," he said. "She's a thoroughly good sort really, and means well."
"Paul, you know perfectly well you used to laugh at her as much as any of us."
"Did I? Then I was wrong. I'm beginning to see that the world is full of queer sorts of people, and that the only real test is their sincerity."
"Well, then, some sincere people are impossible. You know they are. At any rate I'm sincere enough to tell you that I think so."
Ethel Cator came up to them. She was a brunette, tall and thin, and in a cap and apron she looked pretty. She was one of Madeline's friends. "Hullo, Madeline," she said. "How are you two getting on? Have some more tea?"
"My dear, aren't you worn out with this tea business? Can't I give you a hand? It's a slack time at the stall."
"Oh no. It's all right. But it's our busy time, of course. Have some more eclairs. We're running a bit short, but I can get some for you."
"I couldn't. Really, I couldn't. Will you, Paul? I say, Ethel, are you going to the school dance? Grace said yesterday she didn't know what you had decided. Do come, my dear. I've said I'll go, and you must be there. I've positively got a new frock for it."
"Look here," said Paul, laughing, "this is no place for me. I'm off. I'll tell your mother to expect you in half an hour, Madeline. Good-bye. Good-bye, Miss Cator. Your tea's topping. I'll send in everyone I see." And he walked off.
Madeline glanced quickly across the room; Mrs. Thornton and Edith were making their way to the door; Paul caught them up as she watched. She flushed slightly. Ethel Cator slipped into the empty place by her side, and dropped her voice a little. "He's not keen on that girl, surely," she said.
Madeline shrugged her shoulders. "How should I know?" she asked, with an assumption of indifference.
Ethel laughed. "Well, my dear, of course it's not my business, but I thought you saw a good deal of him."
"Well, naturally, seeing what our fathers are."
"Has Cambridge changed him? I should have thought he'd have dropped the Mission Hall now."
Ethel's tone was a little contemptuous, and it roused Madeline to the defensive.