“Eusty, you irreverent boy, don’t talk shop,” said Olive impatiently.
“All serene. We had a regular sacerdotal feed though, with the dad in the chair and Margaret in the vice-chair. Concerning whom, old Crustibore, the ex-archdeacon of Seringapatam, who’s stone deaf and takes snuff, remarked to his neighbour in a strident stage-whisper what a young-looking woman ‘Mrs Ingelow’ was, to be the mother of that dashing fellow opposite. I thought the dad would have choked. As for me I roared outright, but I took care to look in another direction, so it didn’t matter.”
“It wasn’t ‘dashing fellow’ at all, Olive,” struck in Sophie. “What Dr Crustibore really said was ‘that lanky rascal.’”
All shouted, except Eustace, who affected to regard the interruption as unworthy of notice.
“Yes,” he went on. “It’s a pity you weren’t there to keep Sophie in order. She behaved disgracefully, the more so that ‘great was the company of the preachers.’”
“Ah! I’ve been waiting for that quotation,” cried Sophie, sharp as a needle. “Olive, he made use of it about twenty times last night—went all round the room planting it everywhere. I heard it myself at least ten times, and knowing Eusty as we do, it’s safe to put the total figure at twenty. And now he’s transplanted it here. I knew he would. Dragged it in by the head and shoulders, too—literally.”
“Twenty times! Say a hundred while you’re about it.”
“It was twenty at least. Why, Margaret heard him three times, and scowled at him for a profane person.”
“Who hadn’t got any ‘birthright’ to sell,” cut in Eustace. “But you should have heard that child. She got in among a knot of those doleful chaps, all neck and spectacles, regular gargoyles, you know, and played the very mischief. You know that lank chap, Berriman, who brought out those asinine articles on celibacy. Well, she soon worked round to that topic, and made of it a peg whereon to hang such a jobation, that they stared at her in horrified amaze, and scattered as if a shell had dropped in among them. You see, she spoke feelingly. That sort of doctrine tends to spoil trade.”
“Pooh! None of your gargoyles for me,” laughed Sophie.