As Horatio resumed his walk a small, plaintive voice close behind him caused him to look round. "Why, Martin Luther!" he exclaimed, pointing sternly down the lane. "You go straight home!" Then as Martin Luther rubbed coaxingly against his legs: "It's no use, you can't come. In the first place you've not been invited and in the second place it's a very mixed party. You wouldn't like them," he whispered consolingly as he lifted Martin Luther to his shoulder.
Fortunately it was only a couple of minutes' walk back to the lodge and there the cat could be left in the care of Mrs. Pottle or little An Petronia Pottle until his master was well out of range. Mrs. Pottle was properly shocked at the tale of Martin Luther's behavior—she had never seen the like of it, such a forward cat; she would think shame before trying to go where she wasn't invited, and what for would he be wanting to be mixing himself up with the likes of the Progressive Mothers—my word!
Martin Luther could listen respectfully to Merle for various reasons, one being that Merle was of his own authoritative sex, but Mrs. Pottle's theatricals only bored him and he retired to the square cave under the stone chimney seat which he assumed had been built for his exclusive use when he condescended to visit the lodge.
Mrs. Pottle followed the curate to the porch. "How about this Storm girl?" she asked.
"What do you mean? Don't you like her, Mrs. Pottle?" There was real concern in the clergyman's voice.
Mrs. Pottle folded her arms; her whole attitude was an answer to his question.
"I'm not saying if I likes the girl or don't like her," she went on; "but there's one thing I do say: She's never been taught how to make a bed, nor yet how to dust a room. And what's more," here Mrs. Pottle fumbled in her pocket, "I found this on her table." She held out a rabbit's foot, tinged at the end with pink powder.
"Bless my soul! The foot of a rabbit!" exclaimed Merle, in genuine surprise. "Dear me! This is most astonishing. Perhaps Miss Storm is interested in natural history."
"Natural 'istory?" cried Mrs. Pottle derisively. "Unnatural 'istory I calls it; that's what she powders her face with."
"You don't say!" said the curate gravely, returning the rabbit's foot to Mrs. Pottle. "I should never have known it. How does my little friend An Petronia like her?"