In quivering tones Miss Julia began, "It's only something I've been——"
"Considering for the Parish Magazine," ejaculated Uvo. "Miss Brabazon did me the honour of consulting me about it."
"And may I ask your responsibility for the Parish Magazine, Mr. Delavoye?"
"It's a story," continued Uvo, ignoring the question and looking hard at Miss Julia—"a local story, evidently written for local publication, the scene being laid here at Witching Hill House. The principal character is the very black sheep of my family who once lived there."
"I'm aware of the relationship," said the Vicar, dryly unimpressed.
"It's not one that we boast about; hence Miss Brabazon's kindness in trying to ascertain whether my people or I were likely to object to its publication."
"Well," said the Vicar, "I'm quite sure that neither you nor your people would have any objection to Miss Brabazon's getting to bed by midnight."
He returned to the door, which he held wide open with urbane frigidity. "Now, Julia, if you'll set us an example."
And at the door he remained when the bewildered lady, delivered from an embarrassment that she could not appreciate, and committed to a subterfuge in which she could see no point, had flown none the less readily, with a hectic simper and a whistle of silk.
"Now, gentlemen," continued the Vicar, "it's nearly midnight, as I've said more than once."