I remember how, in one of those silences, Norah, who sat facing me, leaned forward and addressed me.  She said, “Mr. Furnival, you’ve come from Belgium, haven’t you?  Do tell me about it!  I can’t get a word out of Viola.”

I supposed they hadn’t told Norah.  They had spared the youngest.  She was only seventeen.

The butler and the parlourmaid, standing rigid by the sideboard, looked at each other in their fright.  Mrs. Thesiger saw them and flushed.  But Canon Thesiger, who had his back to them, observed that Belgium was a large order, and that Mr. Furnival would have to tell her about it afterwards.

But there was never any afterwards for Norah.  She said, “I believe there’s a joke about Belgium, and that Mr. Furnival’s in it.”

Viola laughed.  It was, on the whole, the best thing she could do.  If I’d giggled, too, it might have helped, but I didn’t dare to, sitting there beside Mrs. Thesiger.

The Canon pushed a dish of chocolates in front of his youngest daughter to keep her quiet, and then plunged like a hero into the tendencies of modern music, which he deplored.  He asked my opinion of Richard Strauss, a composer of whom he was profoundly ignorant.  Scarlatti and Corelli tided us over dessert, and Purcell floated us tenderly into the drawing-room and coffee.  After coffee the Canon took me into the library (he said) for a smoke.

I could see by the fuss he made about his cigarettes that he was nervous, staving off the moment.

It came with the silence of the first cigarette.  There were no transitions.  He simply settled himself a little deeper into his chair and said, “I’m a little anxious about that girl of mine.”

I said, “Are you, sir?” as if I were surprised.

“Well”—­he was evidently trying to steer between his decision to ignore and his desire for knowledge—­“you see, she’s rather reckless and impulsive.”

I agreed.  She was—­a little.

“More than a little, I’m afraid.  Do you know anything of this man Jevons she talks about?”

That was masterly of the Canon, the subtle suggestion that Viola did no more than talk about Jevons, the still more subtle implication that if she could talk about him all was well.

I said that Jevons was a very decent fellow, and added that Captain Thesiger had met him.

It was mean of me to shovel the responsibility on to Reggie, but I wanted to gain time, too.

The Canon remembered that Reggie had said something.  And then suddenly he discarded subtlety and told me straight out that Reggie had said Jevons was a bit of a bounder, and he supposed he was.

I could see him watching me, trying to break down my defences.

I dodged him with “These things are comparative,” and he floored me with a sudden thrust: 

“No, my dear boy, they are not.”

He meditated.  “What sort of age is he?”