Less Than Angels by Barbara Pym

enter the pew. Jean-Pierre, with a charming smile, moved up to make room and then unhooked a kneeler for Mrs. Dulke with a courteous gesture. She removed her gloves and fox fur, and knelt for a moment in flustered prayer. Mr. Dulke hardly even attempted this for at that moment the tinkling of a little bell was heard, the organist started to play some indefinite music and the procession came in.
    As it was a Festival the servers were in their lace-trimmed cottas and Father Tulliver was wearing a particularly splendid cope. Jean-Pierre could hardly have chosen a better occasion to visit the church and he appeared to be following the proceedings intently. There was no sermon as such, that is, Father Tulliver did not actually enter the pulpit, but stood in the chancel and said a few words, touching on the significance of the Festival with a note on the meaning of the word ‘Paraclete’. The service was beautifully conducted and there was perhaps nobody who did not feel in some way the better for having been present at it.
    Deirdre had been worrying a little about Jean-Pierre, remembering her rash invitation or half-invitation to Sunday lunch when they had been talking at the party. She had never imagined that he would really turn up. Perhaps he would just slip quietly away now and there need be no embarrassment, but they all seemed to come out of church together and it was impossible to avoid talking to him.
    ‘So you came after all,’ she said lamely. ‘Did you like the service?’
    ‘I found it enchanting,’ Jean-Pierre bowed.
    Hardly the right word, Deirdre felt, though she saw what he meant.
    ‘Of course I felt almost at home, though there were some interesting differences in the ritual.’
    ‘You are a Roman Catholic, then, Mr. er…’ Rhoda looked appealingly at Deirdre who had not so far introduced the good-looking young man.
    Deirdre always forgot introductions or did them the wrong way round, but eventually it was made clear who Jean-Pierre was, and there was a perceptible brightening in Rhoda’s manner.
    ‘You must stay and have lunch with us,’ she said. ‘We are always so glad to meet Deirdre’s friends. My sister, Deirdre’s mother, that is, will be delighted. She is at home cooking the meal-of course things are not as they were,’ she added obscurely.
    Deirdre supposed that she must be remembering the old days when they would have had a cook.
    ‘There has been quite a social revolution in England, I believe,’ said Jean-Pierre politely. ‘The dynamics of culture change.’
    ‘Such a pity,’ said Rhoda, puzzling over the end of his sentence. ‘In some ways, that is. Of course one does want things to be shared more equally, that is good …’
    ‘Provided one gets the larger share oneself,’ said Jean-Pierre, rushing forward to open the gate. ‘What a delightful house!’
    ‘It is detached, of course,’ said Rhoda, ‘which is an advantage.’
    ‘Yes, detachment is a good thing. But one can be too detached, perhaps?’
    ‘How about a drink?’ Malcolm suggested, and Rhoda was a little relieved when the ‘young people’, as she thought of them, carried their gins and tonics into the garden. She herself hurried to the kitchen to break the news to her sister.
    ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind my asking him to lunch,’ she said. ‘It looked such a large piece of veal, and we do want to encourage Deirdre’s friends here, don’t we. Of course he is a Frenchman and he does seem to be rather foreign, those yellow gloves, but he speaks English perfectly and seems very charming. Now, have we done enough vegetables, do you think?’ she went on rather fussily. ‘I’d better see about laying the table. He sat in the Dulkes’ pew by mistake, but he moved up when they came in, so it was all right. He unhooked a kneeler for Mrs. Dulke -I don’t suppose you’d find an Englishman doing that. It’s still only twenty past twelve—what a good thing Father Tulliver didn’t give us a proper sermon,