But his heart misgave. So far he had only 'thought right' what her
conventions approved. He had seldom acted on his own initiative. She
therefore had a phrase, 'Dear Edward is always right.' It was possible
that when he left off his unquestioning concordance with her, she would
leave off saying 'Dear Edward is always right.' So far he had not
wanted anything particularly, and as it was as difficult to quarrel
with Mrs. Marston as to strike a match on a damp box, there had never
been any friction. She liked things, as she said, 'nice and pleasant.'
To do Providence justice, everything always had been. Even when her
husband died it had been, in a crape-clad way, nice and pleasant, for
he died after the testimonial and the urn, and not before, as a less
considerate man would have done. He died on a Sunday, which was 'so
suitable,' and at dawn, which was 'so beautiful'; also (in the phrase
used for criminals and the dying) 'he went quietly.' Not that Mrs.
Marston did not feel it. She did, as deeply as her nature could. But
she felt it, as a well-padded boy feels a whacking, through layers of
convention. Now, at her age, to find out that life was not so pleasant
as she thought would be little short of tragedy.

'Ah, I'll come, and I'm much obleeged,' said Hazel.

'I'll meet you at Hunter's Spinney and see you home.' Edward decided.

To this also Hazel assented so delightedly that the cornet pushed back
his chair and went to another table with a sardonic laugh. But his
remarks were drowned by a voice which proclaimed:

'All the years I've bin to suppers I've 'ad tartlets! To-night they
wunna go round. I've paid the same as others. Tartlets I'll 'ave!'