“What did you want to know?” she asked, later, seated at a table in an upstairs room, overlooking the street.
“Know?” Verity, her eyes on the traffic, was a trifle vague until Deborah’s stern gaze collected her wits with a jerk. “Oh, I wondered if by any chance you knew the author of——?”
“I don’t!” Deb got to her feet. “Good-bye!”
Verity pulled her down again.
“No, it wasn’t that. It was—let me see——” looking anxiously at the crowd—“oh, I know! Should you think red roses and green tulle——?”
“I shouldn’t!” Deb made another effort. “You’re a little wretch, Verity! You might have known I wanted to be alone.”
Verity clung to her, gazing despairingly at the stairs.
“I’ve remembered the real reason—honest Injun, I have! I just wanted to know whether the best way to manage a parson is to marry him?”
“Marry him?” Deb sank into her seat. “Now, Verity, what are you up to? Tell me at once. I won’t move till you do!”
“Oh, there’s nothing at all to worry about,” Verity replied, pouring out coffee with beautifully concealed triumph. “The question hasn’t arisen yet, in any way. I put it merely as a business proposition. Something must be done with the new parson at Cantacute, and as I’m much the bravest person in the place—sugar, dear? Here’s the cream.”