I ask you to guess the amazement that fell among us. He—our Vicar— riding a mare called Barmaid! Miss Limpenny cast her eyes up to meet the descent of the thunderbolt.
"Lord Ballarat was riding too," the Vicar went on, "and young Tom Beauchamp, son of the Bishop—"
"Died of D.T. out at Malta with the Ninety-ninth," interpolated the Honourable Frederic.
"So I heard, poor fellow. Three-bottle Beauchamp we called him. I've put him to bed many a time when—"
It was too much.
"In the Great Exhibition of 1851," began Miss Priscilla severely.
But at this moment a dreadful rumbling shook the room. The chandeliers rattled, the egg-shell china danced upon the what-not, and a jarring sensation suddenly ran up the spine of every person in the company.
"It's an earthquake!" shouted the Honourable Frederic, starting up with an oath.
Miss Limpenny thought an earthquake nothing less than might be expected after such language. Louder and still louder grew the rumbling, until the very walls shook. Everybody turned to a ghastly white. The Vicar's face bore eloquent witness to the reproach of his conscience.
"I think it must be thunder," he gasped.