Mrs Swann, a comely little thing of thirty-nine, was making
herself resplendent for the inaugural solemnity of the Festival, which
began at eight. The news of the frost disturbed her.
"How annoying!" she said.
"Annoying?" he questioned blandly. "Why?"
"Now you needn't put on any of your airs, John!" she snapped. She had a
curt way with her at critical times. "You know as well as I do that I'm
thinking of Gilbert's hands.... No! you must wear your frock-coat, of
course!... All that drive from the other end of the town right to
Hanbridge in a carriage! Perhaps outside the carriage, because of the
'cello! There'll never be room for two of them and the 'cello and Mrs
Clayton Vernon in her carriage! And he can't keep his hands in his
pockets because of holding the 'cello. And he's bound to pretend he
isn't cold. He's so silly. And yet he knows perfectly well he won't do
himself justice if his hands are cold. Don't you remember last year at
the Town Hall?"
"Well," said Mr Swann, "we can't do anything; anyway, we must hope for
the best."
"That's all very well," said Mrs Swann. And it was.
Shortly afterwards, perfect in most details of her black silk, she left
the bedroom, requesting her husband to be quick, as tea was ready.
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