CHAPTER VIII
Breakfast on Sunday morning was an hour later than on
weekdays, and Priscilla, who usually made no public appearance before luncheon,
honoured it by her presence. Dressed in
black silk, with a ruby cross as well as her customary string of pearls round
her neck, she presided. An enormous
Sunday paper concealed all but the extreme pinnacle of her coiffure from the
outer world.
'I see
Surrey has won,' she said, with her mouth full, 'by four wickets. The sun is in Leo: that would account for
it!'
'Splendid
game, cricket,' remarked Mr Barbecue-Smith heartily to no one in particular;
'so thoroughly English.'
Jenny, who
was sitting next to him, woke up suddenly with a start. 'What?' she said. 'What?'
'So
English,' repeated Mr Barbecue-Smith.
Jenny
looked at him, surprised. 'English? Of course I
am.'
He was
beginning to explain, when Mrs Wimbush veiled her
Sunday paper, and appeared, a square, mauve-powdered face in the midst of
orange splendours. 'I see there's a new
series of articles on the next world just beginning,' she said to Mr
Barbecue-Smith. 'This one's called
"Summer Land and Gehenna."'
'Summer
Land,' echoed Mr Barbecue-Smith, closing his eyes. '
Mary had
taken the seat next to Denis's. After a
night of careful consideration she had decided on Denis. He might have less talent than Gombauld, he might be a little lacking in seriousness, but
somehow he was safer.
'Are you
writing much poetry here in the country?' she asked, with a bright gravity.
'None,'
said Denis curtly. 'I haven't brought my
typewriter.'
'But do you
mean to say you can't write without a typewriter?'
Denis shook
his head. He hated talking at breakfast,
and, besides, he wanted to hear what Mr Scogan was
saying at the other end of the table.
'... My
scheme for dealing with the Church,' Mr Scogan was
saying, 'is beautifully simple. At the
present time the Anglican clergy wear their collars the wrong way round. I would compel them to wear, not only their
collars, but all their clothes, turned back to front - coat, waistcoat,
trousers, boots - so that every clergyman should present to the world a smooth
façade, unbroken by stud, button, or lace.
The enforcement of such a livery would act as a wholesome deterrent to
those intending to enter the Church. At
the same time, it would enormously enhance, what Archbishop Laud so rightly
insisted on, the "beauty of holiness" in the few incorrigibles who
could not be deterred.'
'In hell,
it seems,' said Priscilla, reading in her Sunday paper, 'the children amuse
themselves by flaying lambs alive.'
Ah, but,
dear lady, that's only a symbol,' exclaimed Mr Barbecue-Smith, 'a material
symbol of a h-piritual
truth. Lambs signify ...'
'Then there
are military uniforms,' Mr Scogan went on. 'When scarlet and pipeclay
were abandoned for khaki, there were some who trembled for the future of
war. But then, finding how elegant the
new tunic was, how closely it clipped the waist, how voluptuously, with the
lateral bustles of the pockets, it exaggerated the hips; when they realized the
brilliant potentialities of breeches and top-boots, they were reassured. Abolish these military elegances, standardize
a uniform of sackcloth and mackintosh, you will very soon find that ...'
'Is anyone
coming to church with me this morning?' asked Henry Wimbush. No one responded. He baited his bare invitation. 'I read the lessons, you know. And there's Mr Bodiham. His sermons are sometimes worth hearing.'
'Thank you,
thank you,' said Mr Barbecue-Smith. 'I
for one prefer to worship in the infinite church of Nature. How does our Shakespeare put it? "Sermons in books,
stones in the running brooks."'
He waved his arm in a fine gesture towards the window, and even as he
did so he became vaguely, but nonetheless insistently, nonetheless uncomfortably
aware that something had gone wrong with the quotation. Something - what could it be? Sermons? Stones? Books?