uncle's church. When she got there she found that it was rather full, but being a regular churchgoer she did not mind going up to the front where there were plenty of empty pews.
She had never particularly liked the church as a building—there was a coldness and lack of 'atmosphere' about it that had nothing to do, she felt sure, with the wealthy congregation. Some of them indeed seemed to be at the service, looking somehow different from the 'office workers' for whom the services had been arranged. Poor things, with their cocktails, Ianthe thought, remembering her uncle's scorn, some of their faces under the elegant hats and above the fur coats were kindly, even noble. She was sure that they were thoroughly nice, good people.
The organ started to play and Ianthe's attention was diverted by the entry of the preacher, so that she did not notice John walking quietly up the aisle and slipping into the pew behind her. The service began with a prayer, then there was a hymn, and then the address. It was of a suitable Ash Wednesday character and left the congregation feeling sober and a little cast down. It was not until the last hymn that Ianthe happened to turn her head slightly and not so much see him as become conscious that he was sitting behind her and presumably had been throughout the service. Understandably, therefore, her last prayer was a little self-conscious. She knelt longer than she would normally have done, not out of devotion but to give him time to get away. Yet she was not surprised to find him waiting for her outside the church, apparently absorbed in the design of an iron pineapple on the railings.
'Why hullo, John—ha ve you been in church?' It was all she could think of to say. They were now walking along together as it was too cold to stand about.
'That fur collar suits you,' he said.
'It's nice and warm on a day like this,' said Ianthe apologetically, feeling herself like one of the rich members of her uncle's congregation. John's overcoat of a thin material in the rather common 'Italian' style did not look very warm, she thought with a pang.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. One could hardly assume that he had not gone to church out of piety and because it was Ash Wednesday, Ianthe thought, but it was rather puzzling and disturbing to think that she couldn't even attend to her devotions in peace.
'We must hurry or we shall be late back,' she said rather distantly.
'I'm sure Mervyn won't mind us being a few minutes late, and for such a good cause,' said John earnestly.
'I didn't know you went to church regularly,' said Ianthe.
'Well, I haven't done up to now.' He put his hand under her elbow as they crossed the road. 'I really only went today because of you. I'm afraid I followed you.'
'But that isn't the right reason for going,' she protested.
'Haven't you ever done such a thing?' He smiled down at her and Ianthe found herself noting, quite irrelevantly, that he was taller than Rupert Stonebird.
'Only when I was a schoolgirl,' she admitted. 'You shouldn't have followed me. If you'd wanted to go to church you could have gone to St Ermin's which is much nearer. You must pass the poster announcing their Lent services every time you go to your bus stop.'
'Yes I do, but I wanted to be where you were,' he said simply.
Ianthe was touched and flattered in spite of herself. This ridiculous young man, she told herself. And yet why shouldn't he be fond of her. He could be . . . well, a younger brother. Having, as she thought, settled their relationship satisfactorily, Ianthe was then conscious that he was looking at her in a way that did not seem quite what she thought of as brotherly, though she had never had any brothers of her own to make the comparison with.
'Oh there you are, you two,' said Mervyn irritably. He held an open book in his hand. 'I can't have all my staff out to lunch at the same time.'
'I'm sorry,' said Ianthe. 'We've been to church.'
'That doesn't impress me. A friend of
She had never particularly liked the church as a building—there was a coldness and lack of 'atmosphere' about it that had nothing to do, she felt sure, with the wealthy congregation. Some of them indeed seemed to be at the service, looking somehow different from the 'office workers' for whom the services had been arranged. Poor things, with their cocktails, Ianthe thought, remembering her uncle's scorn, some of their faces under the elegant hats and above the fur coats were kindly, even noble. She was sure that they were thoroughly nice, good people.
The organ started to play and Ianthe's attention was diverted by the entry of the preacher, so that she did not notice John walking quietly up the aisle and slipping into the pew behind her. The service began with a prayer, then there was a hymn, and then the address. It was of a suitable Ash Wednesday character and left the congregation feeling sober and a little cast down. It was not until the last hymn that Ianthe happened to turn her head slightly and not so much see him as become conscious that he was sitting behind her and presumably had been throughout the service. Understandably, therefore, her last prayer was a little self-conscious. She knelt longer than she would normally have done, not out of devotion but to give him time to get away. Yet she was not surprised to find him waiting for her outside the church, apparently absorbed in the design of an iron pineapple on the railings.
'Why hullo, John—ha ve you been in church?' It was all she could think of to say. They were now walking along together as it was too cold to stand about.
'That fur collar suits you,' he said.
'It's nice and warm on a day like this,' said Ianthe apologetically, feeling herself like one of the rich members of her uncle's congregation. John's overcoat of a thin material in the rather common 'Italian' style did not look very warm, she thought with a pang.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. One could hardly assume that he had not gone to church out of piety and because it was Ash Wednesday, Ianthe thought, but it was rather puzzling and disturbing to think that she couldn't even attend to her devotions in peace.
'We must hurry or we shall be late back,' she said rather distantly.
'I'm sure Mervyn won't mind us being a few minutes late, and for such a good cause,' said John earnestly.
'I didn't know you went to church regularly,' said Ianthe.
'Well, I haven't done up to now.' He put his hand under her elbow as they crossed the road. 'I really only went today because of you. I'm afraid I followed you.'
'But that isn't the right reason for going,' she protested.
'Haven't you ever done such a thing?' He smiled down at her and Ianthe found herself noting, quite irrelevantly, that he was taller than Rupert Stonebird.
'Only when I was a schoolgirl,' she admitted. 'You shouldn't have followed me. If you'd wanted to go to church you could have gone to St Ermin's which is much nearer. You must pass the poster announcing their Lent services every time you go to your bus stop.'
'Yes I do, but I wanted to be where you were,' he said simply.
Ianthe was touched and flattered in spite of herself. This ridiculous young man, she told herself. And yet why shouldn't he be fond of her. He could be . . . well, a younger brother. Having, as she thought, settled their relationship satisfactorily, Ianthe was then conscious that he was looking at her in a way that did not seem quite what she thought of as brotherly, though she had never had any brothers of her own to make the comparison with.
'Oh there you are, you two,' said Mervyn irritably. He held an open book in his hand. 'I can't have all my staff out to lunch at the same time.'
'I'm sorry,' said Ianthe. 'We've been to church.'
'That doesn't impress me. A friend of
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