"Only too happy," said Coote.
"Of course," said Kipps, "I didn't think----" He changed his line of thought. "Coote," he asked, "wot's a 'state-eh-tate'?"
"A 'tate-ah-tay'!" said Coote, improvingly, "is a conversation alone together."
"Lor'!" said Kipps, "but I thought----. It says _strictly_ we oughtn't to enjoy a tater-tay, not sit together, walk together, ride together or meet during any part of the day. That don't leave much time for meeting, does it?"
"The books says that?" asked Coote.
"I jest learnt it by 'eart before you came. I thought that was a bit rum, but I s'pose it's all right."
"You won't find Miss Walshingham so strict as all that," said Coote. "I think that's a bit extreme. They'd only do that now in very strict old aristocratic families. Besides, the Walshinghams are so modern--advanced, you might say. I expect you'll get plenty of chances of talking together."
"There's a tremendous lot to think about," said Kipps, blowing a profound sigh. "D'you mean--p'raps we might be married in a few months or so."
"You'll _have_ to be," said Coote. "Why not?"...
Midnight found Kipps alone, looking a little tired and turning over the leaves of the red-covered textbook with a studious expression. He paused for a moment on page 233, his eye caught by the words:
"FOR AN UNCLE OR AUNT BY MARRIAGE the period is six weeks black, with jet trimmings."
"No," said Kipps, after a vigorous mental effort. "That's not it." The pages rustled again. He stopped and flattened out the little book decisively at the beginning of the chapter on "Weddings."
He became pensive. He stared at the lamp wick. "I suppose I ought to go over and tell them," he said, at last.
--5
Kipps called on Mrs. Walshingham, attired in the proper costume for ceremonial Occasions in the Day. He carried a silk hat, and he wore a deep-skirted frock coat, his boots were patent leather and his trousers dark grey. He had generous white cuffs with gold links, and his grey gloves, one thumb in which had burst when he put them on, he held loosely in his hand. He carried a small umbrella rolled to an exquisite tightness. A sense of singular correctness pervaded his being and warred with the enormity of the occasion for possession of his soul. Anon he touched his silk cravat. The world smelt of his rosebud.
He seated himself on a new re-covered chintz armchair and stuck out the elbow of the arm that held his hat.
"I know," said Mrs. Walshingham, "I know everything," and helped him out most amazingly. She deepened the impression he had already received of her sense and refinement. She displayed an amount of tenderness that touched him.
"This is a great thing," she said, "to a mother," and her hand rested for a moment on his impeccable coat sleeve.
"A daughter, Arthur," she explained, "is so much more than a son."
Marriage, she said, was a lottery, and without love and toleration there was much unhappiness. Her life had not always been bright--there had been dark days and bright days. She smiled rather sweetly. "This is a bright one," she said.
She said very kind and flattering things to Kipps, and she thanked him for his goodness to her son. ("That wasn't anything," said Kipps.) And then she expanded upon the theme of her two children. "Both so accomplished," she said, "so clever. I call them my Twin Jewels."
She was repeating a remark that she had made at Lympne, that she always said her children needed opportunities, as other people needed air, when she was abruptly arrested by the entry of Helen. They hung on a pause, Helen perhaps surprised by Kipps' weekday magnificence. Then she advanced with outstretched hand.
Both the young people were shy. "I jest called 'round," began Kipps, and became uncertain how to end.
"Won't you have some tea?" asked Helen.
She walked to the window, looked out at the familiar outporter's barrow, turned, surveyed Kipps for a moment ambiguously, said "I will get some tea," and so departed again.
Mrs. Walshingham and Kipps looked at one another and the lady smiled indulgently. "You two young people mustn't be shy of each other," said Mrs. Walshingham, which damaged Kipps considerably.
She was explaining how sensitive Helen always had been, even about quite little things, when the servant appeared with the tea things, and then Helen followed, and taking up a secure position behind the little banboo tea table, broke the ice with officious teacup clattering. Then she introduced the topic of a forthcoming open-air performance of "As You Like It," and steered past the worst of the awkwardness. They discussed stage illusion. "I mus' say," said Kipps, "I don't quite like a play in a theayter. It seems sort of unreal, some'ow."
"But most plays are written for the stage," said Helen, looking at the sugar.
"I know," admitted Kipps.
They finished tea. "Well," said Kipps, and rose.
"You mustn't go yet," said Mrs. Walshingham, rising and taking his hand.
"I'm sure you two must have heaps to say to each other," and so she escaped towards the door.
--6
Among other projects that seemed almost equally correct to Kipps at that exalted moment was one of embracing Helen with ardour as soon as the door closed behind her mother and one of headlong flight through the open window. Then he remembered he ought to hold the door open for Mrs.
Walshingham, and turned from that duty to find Helen still standing, beautifully inaccessible, behind the tea things. He closed the door and advanced toward her with his arms akimbo and his hands upon his coat skirts. Then, feeling angular, he moved his right hand to his moustache. Anyhow, he was dressed all right. Somewhere at the back of his mind, dim and mingled with doubt and surprise, appeared the perception that he felt now quite differently towards her, that something between them had been blown from Lympne Keep to the four winds of heaven....
She regarded him with an eye of critical proprietorship.
"Mother has been making up to you," she said, smiling slightly.
She added, "It was nice of you to come around to see her."
They stood through a brief pause, as though each had expected something different in the other and was a little perplexed at its not being there. Kipps found he was at the corner of the brown covered table, and he picked up a little flexible book that lay upon it to occupy his mind.
"I bought you a ring to-day," he said, bending the book and speaking for the sake of saying something, and then he was moved to genuine speech.
"You know," he said, "I can't 'ardly believe it."
Her face relaxed slightly again. "No?" she said, and may have breathed, "Nor I."
"No," he went on. "It's as though everything 'ad changed. More even than when I got my money. 'Ere we are going to marry. It's like being someone else. What I feel is----"
He turned a flushed and earnest face to her. He seemed to come alive to her with one natural gesture. "I don't _know_ things. I'm not good enough. I'm not refined. The more you'll see of me the more you'll find me out."
"But I'm going to help you."
"You'll 'ave to 'elp me a fearful lot."
She walked to the window, glanced out of it, made up her mind, turned and came towards him, with her hands clasped behind her back.
"All these things that trouble you are very little things. If you don't mind--if you will let me tell you things----"
"I wish you would."
"Then I will."
"They're little things to you, but they aren't to me."