"Arling!" Dolph made hasty substitution. "But I fancy he is well-tried, all right, if he has had to dance professional attendance on her. Where'd she catch it, Olive?"
"Nobody knows. My father says it is like any other germ, floats around in the air and is harmless, until it lights on some degenerate tissue. But then, he never did like Mrs. Brenton."
"The question is," Dolph said, with sudden gravity; "will Brenton get it? I'd rather he'd be afflicted with curacy than with this other thing."
"Curacy?" Olive questioned. "What's that?"
"Acting like this curate chap, and giving his congregation red-hot pap for their Sabbatic food. At least, that's curable; the other isn't."
But Reed shook his head. Despite his unvarying point of view, he knew Scott Brenton better.
"You don't need to worry about Brenton," he assured them. "He has some common sense and a little logic; both things render him immune."
Dolph settled back in his chair and crossed his legs.
"Yes, Olive, I intend to outstay you," he said, in answer to her glance. "You were here first; it's your turn to go now. But about this latest freak of Mrs. Brenton: where do you suppose she picked it up?"
"Evolved it from within."