"What a charming, bright, fresh young life is Miss Arminster's! She dances through the world like—like—er—" And he paused for a simile.
"Like a grasshopper," suggested Mrs. Mackintosh, with marked disapproval in her tones. The Bishop had a trivial, not to say frivolous, strain in his nature which seemed to her hardly in accord with his exalted position.
"No, dear lady," objected his Lordship, "not a grasshopper. Decidedly not a grasshopper; say—like a ray of sunshine."
"Violet's a good girl," remarked his companion, "a very good girl, but in most things she is still a child, and the serious side of life doesn't appeal to her. I dare say she'd go to sleep if you read to her about Jonah."
"She did," admitted the Bishop; "but then of course," he added, wishing to palliate the offence, "it was a very hot day. I suppose, however, you are right. Serious things do not interest her—and that is—I should say—we are serious."
"I am," said Mrs. Mackintosh, "and at your time of life you ought to be; and if we stand here any longer looking at that chunk of brick in the broiling sun, we'll both be as red as a couple of beets."
No amount of sentiment could be proof against a statement of this sort, and they moved on.
Violet and Spotts had meantime sat themselves down on a convenient tombstone to while away the interval till luncheon was served.
"There are lots of things I want to talk to you about, Alvy," began the little actress, "and I never get the chance."
"Well, fire away," he replied. "You've got it now."