“Possible—terribly possible,” said the Padre. “I wish I could see my duty clear. I should not hesitate to—well, to do the best I could to induce them to abandon this murderous project. And what do you imagine was the root of the quarrel?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” said Miss Mapp. She bent her head over the chrysanthemums.
“Your distracting sex,” said he with a moment’s gallantry, “is usually the cause of quarrel. I’ve noticed that they both seemed to admire Miss Irene very much.”
Miss Mapp raised her head and spoke with great animation.
“Dear, quaint Irene, I’m sure, has nothing whatever to do with it,” she said with perfect truth. “Nothing whatever!”
There was no mistaking the sincerity of this, and the Padre, Tillingite to the marrow, instantly concluded that Miss Mapp knew what (or who) was the cause of all this unique disturbance. And as she bent her head again over the chrysanthemums, and quite distinctly grew brick-red in the face, he felt that delicacy prevented his inquiring any further.
“What are you going to do, dear Padre?” she asked in a low voice, choking with emotion. “Whatever you decide will be wise and Christian. Oh, these violent men! Such babies, too!”
The Padre was bursting with curiosity, but since his delicacy forbade him to ask any of the questions which effervesced like sherbet round his tongue, he propounded another plan.
“I think my duty is to go straight to the Major,” he said, “who seems to be the principal in the affair, and tell him that I know all—and guess the rest,” he added.
“Nothing that I have said,” declared Miss Mapp in great confusion, “must have anything to do with your guesses. Promise me that, Padre.”