Beyond Part 52

"Ah, I thought not, never havin' seen you. We've been retired here ourselves a matter of twelve months. A pretty spot."

"Yes; lovely, isn't it?"

"We wanted nature. The air suits us, though a bit--er--too irony, as you might say. But it's a long-lived place. We were quite a time lookin'

round."

Mrs. Wagge added in her thin voice:

"Yes--we'd thought of Wimbledon, you see, but Mr. Wagge liked this better; he can get his walk, here; and it's more--select, perhaps. We have several friends. The church is very nice."

Mr. Wagge's face a.s.sumed an uncertain expression. He said bluffly:

"I was always a chapel man; but--I don't know how it is--there's something in a place like this that makes church seem more--more suitable; my wife always had a leaning that way. I never conceal my actions."

Gyp murmured:

"It's a question of atmosphere, isn't it?"

Mr. Wagge shook his head.

"No; I don't hold with incense--we're not 'Igh Church. But how are YOU, ma'am? We often speak of you. You're looking well."

His face had become a dusky orange, and Mrs. Wagge's the colour of a doubtful beetroot. The dog on Gyp's feet stirred, snuffled, turned round, and fell heavily against her legs again. She said quietly:

"I was hearing of Daisy only to-day. She's quite a star now, isn't she?"

Mrs. Wagge sighed. Mr. Wagge looked away and answered:

"It's a sore subject. There she is, making her forty and fifty pound a week, and run after in all the papers. She's a success--no doubt about it. And she works. Saving a matter of fifteen 'undred a year, I shouldn't be surprised. Why, at my best, the years the influenza was so bad, I never cleared a thousand net. No, she's a success."

Mrs. Wagge added:

"Have you seen her last photograph--the one where she's standing between two hydrangea-tubs? It was her own idea."

Mr. Wagge mumbled suddenly:

"I'm always glad to see her when she takes a run down in a car. But I've come here for quiet after the life I've led, and I don't want to think about it, especially before you, ma'am. I don't--that's a fact."

A silence followed, during which Mr. and Mrs. Wagge looked at their feet, and Gyp looked at the dog.

"Ah!--here you are!" It was Winton, who had come up from behind the shelter, and stood, with eyebrows slightly raised. Gyp could not help a smile. Her father's weathered, narrow face, half-veiled eyes, thin nose, little crisp, grey moustache that did not hide his firm lips, his lean, erect figure, the very way he stood, his thin, dry, clipped voice were the absolute ant.i.thesis of Mr. Wagge's thickset, stoutly planted form, thick-skinned, thick-featured face, thick, rather hoa.r.s.e yet oily voice.

It was as if Providence had arranged a demonstration of the extremes of social type. And she said:

"Mr. and Mrs. Wagge--my father."

Winton raised his hat. Gyp remained seated, the dog Duckie being still on her feet.

"'Appy to meet you, sir. I hope you have benefit from the waters.

They're supposed to be most powerful, I believe."

"Thank you--not more deadly than most. Are you drinking them?"

Mr. Wagge smiled.

"Nao!" he said, "we live here."

"Indeed! Do you find anything to do?"

"Well, as a fact, I've come here for rest. But I take a Turkish bath once a fortnight--find it refreshing; keeps the pores of the skin acting."

Mrs. Wagge added gently:

"It seems to suit my husband wonderfully."

Winton murmured:

"Yes. Is this your dog? Bit of a philosopher, isn't he?"

Mrs. Wagge answered:

"Oh, he's a naughty dog, aren't you, Duckie?"

The dog Duckie, feeling himself the cynosure of every eye, rose and stood panting into Gyp's face. She took the occasion to get up.

"We must go, I'm afraid. Good-bye. It's been very nice to meet you again. When you see Daisy, will you please give her my love?"

Mrs. Wagge unexpectedly took a handkerchief from her reticule. Mr. Wagge cleared his throat heavily. Gyp was conscious of the dog Duckie waddling after them, and of Mrs. Wagge calling, "Duckie, Duckie!" from behind her handkerchief.

Winton said softly:

"So those two got that pretty filly! Well, she didn't show much quality, when you come to think of it. She's still with our friend, according to your aunt."

Gyp nodded.

"Yes; and I do hope she's happy."

"HE isn't, apparently. Serves him right."

Gyp shook her head.

"Oh no, Dad!"

"Well, one oughtn't to wish any man worse than he's likely to get. But when I see people daring to look down their noses at you--by Jove! I get--"

"Darling, what does that matter?"

Winton answered testily:

"It matters very much to me--the impudence of it!" His mouth relaxed in a grim little smile: "Ah, well--there's not much to choose between us so far as condemning our neighbours goes. 'Charity Stakes--also ran, Charles Clare Winton, the Church, and Mrs. Grundy.'"