One of Our Conquerors - World eBook Library

One of Our Conquerors
Nesta, that Dartrey Fenellan had departed. It was her sunshine
departed. But she went through her task of conversing
amiably. Colney, for a wonder, consented to be useful in assisting
Fenellan to relate stories of French Cooks; which were,
like the Royal Hanoverian oyster, of an age for offering acceptable
flavour to English hearers. Nesta drew her mother’s
attention to Priscilla Graves and Skepsey; the latter bending
head and assenting. Nataly spoke of the charm of Priscilla’s
voice that day, in her duet with the Rev. Septimus. Mr.
Pempton looked; he saw that Priscilla was proselytizing. She
was perfection to him but for one blotting thing. With grief
on his eyelids, he said to Nataly or to himself: ‘Meat!’
‘Dear friend, don’t ride your hobby over us,’ she replied.
‘But it’s with that object they mount it,’ said Victor.
The greater ladies of the assembly were quite ready to accuse
the sections, down to the individuals, of the social English
(reserving our elect) of an itch to be tyrants.
Colney was apologizing for them, with his lash: ‘It’s merely
the sensible effect of a want of polish of the surface when
they rub together.’
And he heard Carling exclaim to Victor: ‘How comes the
fellow here!’
Skepsey had rushed across an open space to intercept a
leisurely progressive man, whose hat was of the shape Victor
knew; and the man wore the known black gaiters. In appearance,
he had the likeness of a fallen parson.
Carling and Victor crossed looks that were questions carrying
their answers.
Nataly’s eyes followed Victor’s. ‘Who is the man?’ she said;
and she got no reply beyond a perky sparkle in his gaze.
Others were noticing the man, who was trying to pass by
Skepsey, now on his right side, now on his left.
‘There’ll be no stopping him,’ Carling said, and he slipped
to the rear.’
At this juncture, Armandine’s mellow bell proclaimed her
readiness.
Victor rubbed the back of his head. Nataly asked him:
‘Dear, is it that man?’
He nodded scantly: ‘Expected, expected. I think we have
our summons from Armandine. One moment—poor soul!
poor soul! Lady Carmine—Sir Abraham Quatley. Will you
lead? Lady Blachington, I secure you. One moment.’
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