"At the last moment," Mrs. Batholommey insisted, ignoring her husband, "Mr. Grimm will want to make a will. And you know he hasn't. He'll want to remember the Episcopal Church of Grimm Manor, and his charities—and his—friends. If he doesn't, the rector will be blamed as usual. You're not doing right, Doctor, in keeping——"
"Rose! My dear!" interjected her husband. "These private matters——"
"But——"
"I'll trouble you, Mrs. Batholommey," shouted McPherson, "to attend to your own affairs, and——"
"Doctor!" bleated the rector.
"Oh, let him talk, Henry!" sniffed Mrs. Batholommey in semi-tearful exaltation. "I can bear it. Besides," coming to earth level, "no one in town pays any attention to what he says since he has taken up with spiritualism."
"Oh, Rose! My dear!"
"Shut up!" whispered McPherson wrathfully. "Here he comes. Remember what I——"
Peter Grimm put an end to the warning by reappearing from the cellar with a small demijohn in his hand. His face brightened into a smile of pleasant greeting as he saw his two new guests.
"Why," he exclaimed, "this is the jolliest sort of a surprise. I hope I haven't kept you waiting long?"