“Thank you, no.”
“Dont you drink at all?”
“No.”
“You should. It would give a fillip to your sermons. Let me send you a case of champagne. Promise to drink a bottle every Sunday in the vestry before you come out to preach, and I will take a pew for the season in your church. Thats good of me, isnt it?”
“I must go,” said the Rev. George, rising, after hastily pretending to look at his watch. “Will you excuse me?”
“Nonsense,” she said, rising also, and slipping her hand through his arm to detain him. “Wait and have some luncheon. Why, Doctor, I really think youre afraid of me. Do stay.”
“Impossible. I have much business which I am bound——Pray, let me go,” pleaded the clergyman, piteously, ineffectually struggling with Susanna, who had now got his arm against her breast. “You must be mad!” he cried, drops of sweat breaking out on his brow as he felt himself being pulled helplessly toward the ottoman. She got her knee on it at last; and he made a desperate effort to free himself.
“Oh, how rough you are!” she exclaimed in her softest voice, adroitly tumbling into the seat as if he had thrown her down, and clinging to his arms; so that it was as much as he could do to keep his feet as he stooped over her, striving to get upright. At which supreme moment the door was opened by Marmaduke, who halted on the threshold to survey the two reproachfully for a moment. Then he said:
“George: I’m astonished at you. I have not much opinion of parsons as a rule; but I really did think that you were to be depended on.”
“Marmaduke,” said the clergyman, colouring furiously, and almost beside himself with shame and anger: “you know perfectly well that I am actuated in coming here by no motive unworthy of my profession. You misunderstand what you have seen. I will not hear my calling made a jest of.”