"By Jove, now, it isn't, is it?" Brent looked at her in concern.
"And I'm going to church," she continued. "Would you like to go, Colonel?"
The old gentleman cleared his throat and began searching closely over the table for his glasses, which weren't there.
"I should say he's just about crazy to go," Brent watched him. "Don't speak for a minute, or he'll die of joy. How ingenious you are in planning his amusements!"
"More amusement is coming, I should judge, from the dulcetness of your whistle," she drily observed.
The men exchanged sheepish glances. Brent laughed.
"Admitted," he said. "But it was not you we were trying to deceive. If you tell us how you knew, I'll tie the Colonel on a horse and let you lead him to the altar. She must be a witch, sir!"
"She is, indeed. A charming one, who bewitched me the very first moment I laid eyes on her—and there's been no change in my condition since, madam," the old gentleman bowed to her with courtly grace.
"Then," Brent tried to corner him, "until you admit yourself de-charmed, church this morning is your only alternative."
"It would be a very good place for your soul, young man," he sternly retorted. "When I was a gay spark, ladies of—of almost the same loveliness," he bowed again, "were kept busy weeks in advance accepting my invitations to church, sir! The very rocks and rills of our beloved Commonwealth would strike me dead, sir, if I had permitted so enchanting an opportunity to escape!" And once more he bowed low before her.