‘Now, what would you do if you were married to an engineer, and had to live in Manchester,a Mr Denham?’
‘Surely she could learn Persian,’ broke in a thin, elderly gentleman. ‘Is there no retired schoolmaster, or man of letters in Manchester with whom she could read Persian?’
‘A cousin of ours has married and gone to live in Manchester,’ Katharine explained. Mr Denham muttered something, which was indeed all that was required of him, and the novelist went on where he had left off. Privately, Mr Denham cursed himself very sharply for having exchanged the freedom of the street for this sophisticated drawing-room, where, among other disagreeables, he certainly would not appear at his best. He glanced round him, and saw that, save for Katharine, they were all over forty, the only consolation being that Mr Fortescue was a considerable celebrity, so that tomorrow one might be glad to have met him.
‘Have you ever been to Manchester?’ he asked Katharine.
‘Never,’ she replied.
‘Why do you object to it, then?’
Katharine stirred her tea, and seemed to speculate, so Denham thought, upon the duty of filling somebody else’s cup, but she was really wondering how she was going to keep this strange young man in harmony with the rest. She observed that he was compressing his teacup, so that there was danger lest the thin china might cave inwards. She could see that he was nervous; one would expect a bony young man with his face slightly reddened by the wind, and his hair not altogether smooth, to be nervous in such a party. Further, he probably disliked this kind of thing, and had come out of curiosity, or because her father had invited him—anyhow, he would not be easily combined with the rest.
‘I should think there would be no one to talk to in Manchester,’ she replied at random. Mr Fortescue had been observing her for a moment or two, as novelists are inclined to observe, and at this remark he smiled, and made it the text for a little further speculation.
‘In spite of a slight tendency to exaggeration, Katharine decidedly hits the mark,’ he said, and lying back in his chair, with his opaque contemplative eyes fixed on the ceiling, and the tips of his fingers pressed together, he depicted, first the horrors of the streets of Manchester, and then the bare, immense moors on the outskirts of the town, and then the scrubby little house in which the girl would live, and then the professors and the miserable young students devoted to the more strenuous works of our younger dramatists, who would visit her, and how her appearance would change by degrees, and how she would fly to London, and how Katharine would have to lead her about, as one leads an eager dog on a chain, past rows of clamorous butchers’ shops, poor dear creature.
‘Oh, Mr Fortescue,’ exclaimed Mrs Hilbery, as he finished, ‘I had just written to say how I envied her! I was thinking of the big gardens and the dear old ladies in mittens, who read nothing but the Spectator,b and snuff the candles. Have they all disappeared? I told her she would find the nice things of London without the horrid streets that depress one so.’
‘There is the University,’ said the thin gentleman, who had previously insisted upon the existence of people knowing Persian.
‘I know there are moors there, because I read about them in a book the other day,’ said Katharine.
‘I am grieved and amazed at the ignorance of my family,’ Mr Hilbery remarked. He was an elderly man, with a pair of oval, hazel eyes which were rather bright for his time of life, and relieved the heaviness of his face. He played constantly with a little green stone attached to his watch-chain, thus displaying long and very sensitive fingers, and had a habit of moving his head hither and thither very quickly without altering the position of his large and rather corpulent body, so that he seemed to be providing himself incessantly with food for amusement and reflection with the least possible expenditure of energy. One might suppose that he had passed the time of life when his ambitions were personal, or that he had gratified them as far as he was likely to do, and now employed his considerable acuteness rather to observe and reflect than to attain any result.
Katharine, so Denham decided, while Mr Fortescue built up another rounded structure of words, had a likeness to each of her parents, and these elements were rather oddly blended. She had the quick, impulsive movements of her mother, the lips parting often to speak, and closing again; and the dark oval eyes of her father brimming with light upon a basis of sadness, or, since she was too young to have acquired a sorrowful point of view, one might say that the basis was not sadness so much as a spirit given to contemplation and self-control. Judging by her hair, her colouring, and the shape of her features, she was striking, if not actually beautiful. Decision and composure stamped her, a combination of qualities that produced a very marked character, and one that was not calculated to put a young man, who scarcely knew her, at his ease. For the rest, she was tall; her dress was of some quiet colour, with old yellow-tinted lace for ornament, to which the spark of an ancient jewel gave its one red gleam. Denham noticed that, although silent, she kept sufficient control of the situation to answer immediately her mother appealed to her for help, and yet it was obvious to him that she attended only with the surface skin of her mind. It struck him that her position at the tea-table, among all these elderly people, was not without its difficulties, and he checked his inclination to find her, or her attitude, generally antipathetic to him. The talk had passed over Manchester, after dealing with it very generously.
‘Would it be the Battle of Trafalgar or the Spanish Armada,2 Katharine?’ her mother demanded.
‘Trafalgar, mother.’
‘Trafalgar, of course! How stupid of me! Another cup of tea, with a thin slice of lemon in it, and then, dear Mr Fortescue, please explain my absurd little puzzle. One can’t help believing gentlemen with Roman noses, even if one meets them in omnibuses.’
Mr Hilbery here interposed so far as Denham was concerned, and talked a great deal of sense about the solicitors’ profession, and the changes which he had seen in his lifetime. Indeed, Denham properly fell to his lot, owing to the fact that an article by Denham upon some legal matter, published by Mr Hilbery in his Review, had brought them acquainted. But when a moment later Mrs Sutton Bailey was announced, he turned to her, and Mr Denham found himself sitting silent, rejecting possible things to say, beside Katharine, who was silent too. Being much about the same age and both under thirty, they were prohibited from the use of a great many convenient phrases which launch conversation into smooth waters. They were further silenced by Katharine’s rather malicious determination not to help this young man, in whose upright and resolute bearing she detected something hostile to her surroundings, by any of the usual feminine amenities. They therefore sat silent, Denham controlling his desire to say something abrupt and explosive, which should shock her into life. But Mrs Hilbery was immediately sensitive to any silence in the drawing-room, as of a dumb note in a sonorous scale, and leaning across the table she observed, in the curiously tentative detached manner which always gave her phrases the likeness of butterflies flaunting from one sunny spot to another, ‘D’you know, Mr Denham, you remind me so much of dear Mr Ruskin...cIs it his tie, Katharine, or his hair, or the way he sits in his chair? Do tell me, Mr Denham, are you an admirer of Ruskin? Some one, the other day, said to me, “Oh no, we don’t read Ruskin, Mrs Hilbery.” What do you read, I wonder?—for you can’t spend all your time going up in aeroplanes and burrowing into the bowels of the earth.’