The minister sat silent and inscrutable in his pulpit, rather like a death’s-head, while the congregation filed out. When the last lingerers had unwillingly departed, craning their necks to stare at the still seated Fanny, he rose, stalked in his hooked fashion down the little country chapel and fastened the door. Then he returned and sat down by the silent young woman.
“This is most unfortunate, most unfortunate!” he moaned. “I am so sorry, I am so sorry, indeed, indeed, ah, indeed!” he sighed himself to a close.
“It’s a sudden surprise, that’s one thing,” said Fanny brightly.
“Yes—yes—indeed. Yes, a surprise, yes. I don’t know the woman, I don’t know her.”
“I know her,” said Fanny. “She’s a bad one.”
“Well! Well!” said the minister. “I don’t know her. I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all. But it is to be regretted, it is very much to be regretted. I am very sorry.”
Fanny was watching the vestry door. The gallery stairs communicated with the vestry, not with the body of the chapel. She knew the choir members had been peeping for information.
At last Harry came—rather sheepishly—with his hat in his hand.
“Well!” said Fanny, rising to her feet.
“We’ve had a bit of an extra,” said Harry.