Olive lifted her brows.
"Who?"
"Brenton."
"Haven't you seen him yet?"
Reed shook his head.
"No. It's been pretty decent of him, too, to hold off a little. Most parsons would have rushed in, hot foot, to administer extreme unction and be sure I was in a proper mood concerning Providence. Brenton has had the decency to wait a little. It was almighty decent, too. I knew him in my palmy days, when life was young. It's young for him still—Hold on, Olive; I'm not going to maunder!—and I had a natural dread of having him come piling in here to crow about himself and cackle over me."
Olive's laugh was obviously forced. Even the most irresponsible of gossips is not always altogether hardened.
"I love your metaphors, Reed," she told him. "To be sure, it never had occurred to me that Saint Peter's cock and Saint Peter's rector were identical terms."
Reed digressed.
"What's Brenton's wife turned into?" he inquired.