Free Crampton Hodnet by Barbara Pym Page B

more interesting to wait. It was really not her duty to tell Margaret about last week, but it might very well be to confront her with a complete and convincing story of her husband’s unfaithfulness.
    ‘Is it this evening that the vicar and his wife are coming to dinner?’ asked Mr. Latimer, coming into the room.
    ‘Yes,’ said Miss Doggett with a sigh. ‘He is such a boring little man, but we must do our duty.’
    How smooth he is, thought Miss Morrow, as she listened to Mr. Latimer criticising, quite respectfully, of course, the vicar’s sermons. Every remark that he made was taken up eagerly by Miss Doggett and, as it were, magnified.
    ‘In the old days,’ declared Mr. Latimer, ‘nobody would have tolerated a sermon lasting only ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. Mr. Wardell thinks he is still in those old days. He has material for a ten-minute sermon, but he tries to spin it out for half an hour. The result is—well’ —he turned to Miss Doggett with his charming smile— ‘you have seen that for yourself. Ideas have changed now.’
    Certainly they have, thought Miss Morrow with amusement. Clergymen nowadays apparently think nothing of telling deliberate lies. She wondered whether Mr. Latimer would claim that the change was for the better.
    ‘Of course Mr. Wardell has none of that dignity one associates with the clergy,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘He looks more like a grocer. When I see him in church, I imagine he ought to be slicing bacon.’
    So these were the thoughts that were in Miss Doggett’s mind during Divine Service, reflected Miss Morrow, with interest. Sometimes one could tell, or at least imagine, what people were thinking, but that Miss Doggett should imagine the vicar slicing bacon was something entirely unexpected. By her grave and reverent demeanour, one would have thought that her mind was fixed on God, a large, solemn, bearded God, who might, if He were on earth, very well live in a house like Leamington Lodge, with its massive furniture and general air of gloomy dignity.
    ‘I think he’s quite a good sort of man in his way,’ said Mr. Latimer condescendingly.
    ‘Oh, yes, one never hears anything definite said against him,’ agreed Miss Doggett reluctantly, ‘but I never feel he is quite at his ease among people like us.’
    ‘Well, we must do our best to make him feel at ease tonight,’ said Miss Morrow seriously. ‘He must be in a permanent state of uneasiness, considering how often he comes here.’
    ‘The vicar and Mrs. Wardell,’ said Florence, opening the door.
    Mrs. Wardell strode into the room, her husband scuttling behind her like a crab. Miss Morrow had a brief vision of him in a white coat and apron, slicing bacon.
    ‘How nice Miss Morrow is looking,’ said Mrs. Wardell. ‘I do like that blue velvet.’
    Miss Morrow smiled rather stickily. She did not want anyone to notice or make any comment on her dress. She had already been made to feel that she had done the wrong thing in putting it on, first by Miss Doggett’s raised eyebrows and then by the startled, appealing look Mr. Latimer had given her when he saw it. It was as if he were afraid that the very wearing of it would make her betray his secret.
    ‘Have they been knitting for you already?’ said Mrs. Wardell, plucking at the grey pullover which Mr. Latimer wore. ‘I see nothing but lovesick young women hanging round the church these days. You mark my words,’ she said to Miss Doggett, ‘we shall be losing Mr. Latimer soon.’
    Mr. Latimer gave her a wan smile. One never knew what Mrs. Wardell was going to say. He certainly did not want any reference to be made to that fatal Sunday evening, although she and Miss Morrow were the only ones who had heard his foolish story. He had made the excuse of ill-health to the vicar, and it had been accepted without question, and with a bottle of Dr. Armstrong’s Influenza Mixture thrown in. Mr. Wardell was a very easy-going little man and had not seemed in the