An Unsuitable Attachment by Barbara Pym

seeing her reading Tennyson that had dredged up an old forgotten quotation. He scarcely heard her soft voice going on about paraffin heaters and electric wall fans. He only became as it were conscious again when he realized that she was on to another topic. Apparently there was talk of a party from the parish going to Rome after Easter. Would he be joining it?
    Then he remembered that he had a conference in Perugia over Easter. He could certainly arrange to come on to Rome afterwards though he did not think he had enough courage to join the parish party. Rome for Rupert meant the Vatican Library, the Museo Preistorico Luigi Pigorini, and restaurants in Trastevere, but azaleas were massed on the Spanish Steps at Easter and he could see that this might be the ideal setting for Ianthe.
    'The vicar and his wife, of course,' she was saying, 'and I expect Penelope will come too. It should be lovely.'
    Yes, he might have an amusing time with the two women, he thought suddenly, in the nicest possible way. Who knew what might come of it?
     
     

8
    Ianthe was disconcerted, even a little shocked, to see bottles of milk still standing outside the door of her uncle's Mayfair rectory when she arrived there to luncheon on Quinquagesima Sunday. It looked as if nobody had been to church that morning and she even began to wonder whether there would be any lunch. Then she realized that her uncle would have entered the church through a side door connecting with the vestry, while her aunt, who enjoyed rather poor health, would not have set foot outside even to take in the milk. She was not sure what their present domestic arrangements were and whether there was some splendid woman in the kitchen who had perhaps failed in her duty on this occasion.
    Ianthe picked up a bottle in each hand, then had to put one of them down to ring the front door bell. It seemed a long time before anyone answered and she felt rather stupid standing there with the bottles. Eventually it was the Reverend Randolph Burdon himself who came to the door, looking a little surprised, as if he had expected somebody else. He was a tall stout man with a florid complexion, who looked well in vestments seen from a distance. Close to he was somewhat overwhelming and earthy, the priest of a pagan cult rather than an Anglican rector of the twentieth century. Appropriately enough he was holding a bottle of wine with the corkscrew already inserted.
    'An unfair exchange,' he said, taking the milk bottles from Ianthe. 'You will find your aunt in the drawing room.' He put the milk bottles down on a small table in the hall, where they were to remain until Ianthe left, and as far as she knew, for ever after.
    'Ah, my dear,' said the languid voice.
    'How are you, Aunt Bertha?' said Ianthe, bending to kiss her aunt's pale powdery cheek. She then wished that she had greeted her with less solicitude for she would now have to hear how her aunt was.
    Fortunately a gong sounded at that moment and Bertha sprang up with surprising alacrity and led the way to the dining room, where Randolph was already at the sideboard carving the meat.
    He seemed to be in a gloomy yet exultant mood at the approach of Lent.
    'You know that I have been asked to give a course of sermons at St Basil's? I shall want your advice about that.'
    ' My advice?' said Ianthe.
    'Yes, as to the type of thing required.'
    'But you must know that, surely, with all your experience,' Ianthe protested, knowing that her uncle was quite a celebrated preacher.
    'My dear, this is a fashionable London parish, so called,' said Randolph. He carved the saddle of mutton savagely, as if he were rending his parishioners. 'What hope is there for them this Lent? I suppose they can give up drinking cocktails.''
    Ianthe thought the word 'cocktails' a little old-fashioned, and so evidently did her aunt, who protested that everyone drank whisky or gin and tonic now.
    'Somebody has got to minister to the rich,' she added complacently. She was often