A speaker waited till the chatter died down a little, and then said that he was sure that he for one welcomed Mr. Mansell as a neighbour, but that Stubbington had always been accustomed to manage her own affairs, and it seemed to him incongruous that a stranger, not a member of the Committee, had been asked in to make suggestions. However, the suggestion had been made, and he would like to suggest to Mr. Mansell, in reply, that the bridge lay outside the town, outside the walls, in a place where not one citizen in fifty would or could see it. It might be agreeable to tourists coming in in motor-cars but the figures there would give everybody of the town the feeling that the War Memorial had been turned out of doors.
Frampton was about to reply to this, when a woman rose. She was a comely woman, with a very clear, ringing voice.
She said that the last speaker had voiced something which had occurred to a good many of them. Stubbington was an old town, well-used to managing her own affairs, and many of her citizens could not understand why one with no association with the district had been called in to advise in this matter, especially as the person in question had done so much to upset the good fellowship and sportsmanship in which we used to live here. The men of this district did not give their lives so that barbed-wire fences might be put round coverts.
She sat down. Frampton looked at her with interest, and was about to reply, when the Admiral struck in with:
“By George, though, I’m all for Mr. Mansell advising if it’s a matter of a work of art. What the devil do we know about works of art here? Look at us, I ask you; me and that old ruffian Tom, and this wise chap here, Harold. We may make runs on a slow wicket, but by George, art’s not our subject.”
He made them laugh at this, and made it unnecessary for Frampton to reply. The Rector said that he was sorry that people were objecting to Mr. Mansell’s presence. He had been invited by the Committee to advise, and had very kindly consented to come there. His suggestion about figures on the bridge might be considered.
Miss Pauntley rose and said that the suggestion about the figures, she supposed that Mr. Mansell meant statues, at the bridge-end ought to be debated. The bridge had been an old one until the last few years, but the old one had been too inconvenient and had been swept away. The new one was very bald and bare. She was there that morning, thinking how bare and dull it looked.
Mr. Quart, who had now returned, said that they weren’t there to decorate bare places, but to commemorate the fallen. There were loud “Hear, hears” at this. He went on to say that he had had, and Stubbington had had some experience of decorating, in the recent past, when the body called the Sons of the pre-Raphaelites got leave to paint the roof of the Guild House where they were sitting. He had never seen such figures of fun. It had cost them pounds in whitewash, covering the things. He was a plain man, and if that was art, he needed no more of it. It was quite true what was said, that figures on the bridge would not be seen. The end of the bridge was outside the town. The town faced the other way, he might say, and not twenty windows of the town could command the view of figures there. As for the natives of the town, they would hardly cross the bridge one day in seven. What plain people wanted was a stone in a public place with a list of the names.
Frampton whispered to Harold:
“Who is the lady who got hot about the barbed-wire?”
Dick whispered: “Mrs. Ruddy Verge.” Frampton nodded, with the mental comment:
The attendant, who looked to the cleaning of the room in which they sat, came in with a sheet of paper, on which he had pencilled a telephone message. The Rector called for silence, and read that: Mr. Method-Methodde, the Member for that part of South Tatshire, would be with them in a few minutes. He suggested that the Committee should mark time for those few minutes. The Committee agreed, and broke up into little groups. Frampton moved over to the Rector.
“Tell me, Rector,” Frampton asked, “are you related to the painter that was?”
“Yes, the painter was my uncle, though I never met him,” the Rector said. “He was dead before I was born.”
“Have you any of his work?” Frampton asked.
“I? No,” the Rector said. “I’m one of those brought up to regard my uncle as not quite the sort of uncle that a nephew should be proud of. He may have been a genius, but he was a man of no principle and of unfortunate excess.”
“Well, but Rector,” Frampton said, “I think I must stand up for your uncle. You say he’d no principle. How about the principle of Beauty?”
“What d’you mean by Beauty, Mr. Mansell?” the Rector asked.
“I’m not good at definitions,” Frampton said, “but might we call it, the quality which heightens our sense of life, when perceived in anything?”