He said, “I expect you did—walk miles.
Bagshaw all over it, I bet.”
She did what he called “tighten herself.”
“Well, naturally, he’s pleased—enthusiastic.
He’s done more than any one else to keep the
idea going.”
Sabre laughed. “I should say so! Marvellous
person! What’s he going to do about not
wearing clerical dress when he has to wear gaiters?”
“What do you mean—gaiters?”
Signs of flying up. What on earth for? “Why,
when he’s a bishop. Don’t you—”
She flew up. “I suppose that’s some
sneer!”
“Sneer! Rot. I mean it. A chap
like Bagshaw’s not going to be a parish priest
all his life. He’s out to be a bishop and
he’ll be a bishop. If he changed his mind
and wanted to be a Judge or a Cabinet Minister, he’d
be a Judge or a Cabinet Minister. He’s that
sort.”
“I knew you were sneering.”
“Mabel, don’t be silly. I’m
not sneering. Bagshaw’s a clever—”
“You say he’s ‘that sort.’
That’s a sneer.” She put her hands
on the arms of her chair and raised herself to sit
upright. She spoke with extraordinary intensity.
“Nearly everything you say to me or to my friends
is a sneer. There’s always something behind
what you say. Other people notice it—”
“Other people.”
“Yes. Other people. They say you’re
sarcastic. That’s just a polite way—”
He said, “Oh, come now, Mabel. Not sarcastic.
I swear no one thinks I’m sarcastic. I
promise you Bagshaw doesn’t. Bagshaw thinks
I’m a fool. A complete fool. Look
at lunch!”
She caught him up. She was really angry.
“Yes. Look at lunch. That’s
just what I mean. Any one that comes to the house,
any of my friends, anything they say you must always
take differently, always argue about. That’s
what I call sneering—”
He, flatly, “Well, that isn’t sneering.
Let’s drop it.”
She had no intention of dropping it. “It
is sneering. They don’t know it is.
But I know it is.”
He had the feeling that his anger would arise responsive
to hers, as one beast calling defiance to another,
if this continued. And he did not want it to
arise. He had sometimes thought of anger as a
savage beast chained within a man. It had helped
him to control rising ill-temper. He thought
of it now: of her anger. He had a vision
of it prowling, as a dark beast among caves, challenging
into the night. He wished to retain the vision.
His own anger, prowling also, would not respond while
he retained the picture. It was prowling.
It was suspicious. It would be mute while he
watched it. While he watched it....
He pulled himself sharply to his feet.
“Well, well,”, he said. “It’s
not meant to be sneering. Let’s call it
my unfortunate manner.”
He stood before her, half-smiling, his hands in his
pockets, looking down at her.
