However, two years, it seemed to Catia, had been an ample rest-time. Therefore,—
"Fudge!" she said. And then, "Don't be profane, Scott," she rebuked him, with the literalness which had replaced her meagre childish sense of humour. "The good Lord didn't make your surplices a full eighth of a yard too long, nor put you into a black stole for the whole year round. Besides, you were the only man in that whole convocation that buttoned his collar in front. I should have supposed you'd have known better than that, before you got your license."
Brenton's lips curved into the little smile she always dreaded. Because she dreaded it, it antagonized her.
"Did you?" he queried.
Her antagonism lent a tartness to her reply.
"I never professed to go through a divinity school," she retorted. "If I had, though——" Her pause was fraught with meaning.
He made no effort to discount the meaning. Instead,—
"I don't doubt it, Catia," he responded quietly. "However, as it happens, I had some other things to think about."
That brought her to a momentary halt. However, she swiftly rallied.
"Some people can think of more than one thing at a time," she announced, with something of the same accent in which, long years before, she had ejaculated "Dirty-Face!"