Mrs. Serle was allowing weeks of accumulated bitterness to find an outlet at last!
“We have come to the conclusion that there must have been smallpox or something in the house, and that is the reason that no one has ever come near us. Perhaps you can tell me if this is the case?”
“No,” replied Miss Piggott, “there has never been a case of smallpox in the village—as far as I know. But I think if you ask Mr. Serle, he will explain the reason why you have no visitors.”
“I have asked my husband.”
“Your husband!” interrupted the other, “your husband!”
“Certainly my husband. What else did you think he was?” And she pulled up the pony, and surveyed her companion with blazing eyes.
“Oh, this is most embarrassing!” bleated Miss Piggott. “That I should be called upon to explain matters is too—too—bad!” and her face exhibited bright red patches on its high cheek-bones. Never in a life of fifty years had she found herself in such a desperate situation.
“But please do enlighten me,” urged Mrs. Serle. “I shall be so grateful to you if you will.”
“Well then—I suppose—I must! A few days after you arrived here, Canon Simpson met Mr. Serle in the village. It seems they were old college friends, and when the Canon told your—er—husband, that we were all so pleased to have him amongst us, and were hoping to make your acquaintance, he gave the Canon to understand that—you were—er—not his wife!”
“What?” cried Mrs. Serle, and her voice was so loud and shrill that it startled the dog and pony.