Mr. Quart and Mr. Tom spoke in support. The Admiral seemed perplexed. Mr. Methodde was in deep whispered discussion with Mr. Holyport, about some other matter connected with Jennynges’ Charity. The devil ever at Frampton’s elbow, now gave him a jog. It was wanton of the devil and weak of Frampton to yield to him without at least a struggle, but he was angry with Mrs. Methodde, her person, her voice, her manner, her clothes and her sense of beauty.
“Do you remember,” he asked, “if there was a marble velvet cushion under the book?”
“No, there wasn’t,” she said, “I’m sure of that. Do you recognise the place from my description? But I’m quite sure there was no cushion. A cushion would have spoiled it, I think; don’t you? It would have made it unsimple, don’t you think? And that is what I love so; simplicity.”
The devil gave Frampton another jog, to which he responded.
“I’m surprised there wasn’t a cushion,” he said; “a white velvet marble cushion with dints in it. The roll on the pages made me expect a cushion, with a dog or a lion or something curled up on it, or weeping or something.”
The words fell upon a room which somehow had fallen silent and attentive to receive them. He was gazing at Mrs. Methodde with relish of the effect of his sarcasm. She was not very quick at seeing what he meant. She was the Member’s wife, sitting, as she supposed, among friends, among whom her opinions counted. Was this interloper, the dreadful gun-man from
The Admiral said: “Well, that seems the best suggestion yet: a sort of praying desk, with a book of names. And a marble book wouldn’t wear out in a hurry.”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t,” Frampton said. “Why not a real book, with metal pages, bearing the names engraved upon them; and get the Rector and Choir to come once a week to turn the page, with a prayer or a hymn. They do something of the sort in one or two places; and the effect is very noble.”
“In the open air the pages would rust, and in this climate the Rector and Choir would get wet, two times out of three,” Mr. Quart said.
“The book is to be screened,” Frampton said, “and the Rector and Choir could come in mackintoshes.”
“I’m afraid the Stubbington boys would soon have the movable pages out of the covers,” Mr. Tom said. “Boys will be boys.”
“Boys will be very decent fellows,” Frampton said, “if it is put to them to be so. It would be quite easy to hinge the metal plates beyond the strength of boys.”
“As to that, sir,” a builder said, “you forget that slabs of zinc or copper would have a very mean effect.”
“I did not mention zinc or copper,” Frampton said. “I said metal, meaning memorial bronze.”
“Not many in Stubbington would know what that is, sir,” the man said. “They’d think it was something out of the ironmonger’s shop. But marble is a precious stone to them. They know marble costs money; and they know it’s the thing for graves and that; a bit of white marble that gleams.”
The building party muttered: “Hear, hear.” They knew that it was the thing for graves.
“I wonder, Rector,” the Admiral said, “if we could put this matter to the vote and then I could get away. That is, if it has to come to the vote.”
“I think we could put it to the vote,” the Rector said, looking round the table. “Proposed by Mrs. Methodde, that the Memorial should take the form of a screened
“A marble book of the names,” Mr. Quart said.
“A marble book, sir,” the others added.
“We could discuss the form of the book later,” the Rector said. There came a loud cry of “Marble,” from all over the room. “Bearing a marble book of the names,” the Rector amended. “Anybody second the proposal?”
Yes, a lot of people seconded the proposal.
“Seconded by Admiral Sir Topsle Cringle,” the Rector said. “Those in favour? Contrary? Carried. The Committee decides, therefore, that Mrs. Methodde’s scheme be adopted.”
“Thankee,” the Admiral said. “Now I can get away. Evening Billie; evenin’, Member; ’night, Rector.”
He rose with the alertness of a young man, and was out of the room in a twinkling.
“I wonder,” Frampton said, “if I may have my book of photographs. I’ll say good night, Rector. I’ll have no truck with your marble book. It would be a mean design, even in a bathroom. You’d do better to have the pages of the Army pay-rolls, with the poor chaps’ names crossed out. Who is going to design your marble book? May I ask that?”
He had meant to go, but a thought had struck him, and he waited to hear what they said.
“I’m sure that Mr. Ock, with his wide experience, could put us on to a good ecclesiastical and memorial firm, who would do that for us,” Mr. Quart said, “or if not, Mr. Brix would, I’m sure.”