"It's very kind of you," she replied, "and I shall avail myself of it gladly."
"Quite so. Now my sister tells me that she's seen, in a neighbouring church, the record of your marriage to Mr. Spotts. Is this so?"
"Certainly," said Violet. "I married him there in 1895."
Miss Matilda sniffed viciously.
"Mr. Marchmont," continued the Bishop, "in whose statements, I need hardly say, I place no reliance, informed my sister that you had been married with unusual frequency; and my son tells me, also, that you've admitted to him a—er—a considerable number of—er—matrimonial alliances. Would you—er—er—consider it an intrusion on my part if I asked how many times you have been married?"
"I've had the marriage service performed over me," she replied, "thirty-seven times in four years."
Miss Matilda threw up her hands in an access of horror.
"But your husbands—" stammered his Lordship.
"I never had but one husband," she said. "And here he stands." And she took Spotts's hand in hers.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the Bishop. "You surely haven't married him thirty-seven times?"