Page 8 of Crome Yellow


  CHAPTER VIII.

  Breakfast on Sunday morning was an hour later than on week-days, andPriscilla, who usually made no public appearance before luncheon,honoured it by her presence. Dressed in black silk, with a ruby cross aswell as her customary string of pearls round her neck, she presided.An enormous Sunday paper concealed all but the extreme pinnacle of hercoiffure 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 onein 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 vailed her Sunday paper,and appeared, a square, mauve-powdered face in the midst of orangesplendours. "I see there's a new series of articles on the next worldjust beginning," she said to Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "This one's called'Summer Land and Gehenna.'"

  "Summer Land," echoed Mr. Barbecue-Smith, closing his eyes. "SummerLand. A beautiful name. Beautiful--beautiful."

  Mary had taken the seat next to Denis's. After a night of carefulconsideration she had decided on Denis. He might have less talent thanGombauld, he might be a little lacking in seriousness, but somehow hewas safer.

  "Are you writing much poetry here in the country?" she asked, with abright 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, hewanted 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, "isbeautifully simple. At the present time the Anglican clergy wear theircollars the wrong way round. I would compel them to wear, not only theircollars, but all their clothes, turned back to frantic--coat, waistcoat,trousers, boots--so that every clergyman should present to the worlda smooth facade, unbroken by stud, button, or lace. The enforcement ofsuch a livery would act as a wholesome deterrent to those intending toenter the Church. At the same time it would enormously enhance, whatArchbishop Laud so rightly insisted on, the 'beauty of holiness' in thefew incorrigibles who could not be deterred."

  "In hell, it seems," said Priscilla, reading in her Sunday paper, "thechildren 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. Lambssignify..."

  "Then there are military uniforms," Mr. Scogan went on. "When scarletand pipe-clay were abandoned for khaki, there were some who trembled forthe future of war. But then, finding how elegant the new tunic was, howclosely it clipped the waist, how voluptuously, with the lateralbustles of the pockets, it exaggerated the hips; when they realized thebrilliant potentialities of breeches and top-boots, they were reassured.Abolish these military elegances, standardise a uniform of sack-clothand 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 worthhearing."

  "Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I for one prefer toworship in the infinite church of Nature. How does our Shakespeare putit? 'Sermons in books, stones in the running brooks.'" He waved his armin a fine gesture towards the window, and even as he did so he becamevaguely, but none the less insistently, none the less uncomfortablyaware that something had gone wrong with the quotation. Something--whatcould it be? Sermons? Stones? Books?