“You look pale, Sir Priest,” said Miss Groggerton, who would have called up the devil to prove him another, behind his back.
“The events of last night have distracted me,” he cried, sitting down. And Miss Groggerton rang for his favourite collation of whisky and ham sandwiches.
“Tell us, is it true?” they both cried, as the provisions were being prepared without.
“That woman is in the power of the Evil One,” said he solemnly. “And the sooner that little squat animal is taken by the hind leg and cast into the fire—the—better.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Groggerton, in joyful anticipation of slaughter.
“I believe it’s that frog that gets her a reputation for beauty. Loathsome little thing!” and Susiebelle shivered, and then laughed.
“Listen to me,” said James Peter, raising his fat finger. “Make none of your own little spiteful remarks, but listen to me.”
Being a priest, he spoke as one in authority, and the women submitted.
“That woman,” said he, “is a dangerous and unprincipled character. Three years ago—listen carefully—she came into our temple and pretended to be drunk—dumb, I mean. She used to come and kneel up close to the crimson curtain, and I believe she contaminated it and made it rot. She used to look up at me with her lovely eyes (she has lovely eyes, Mademoiselle Susiebelle, whatever you may think), and point to her lips, and shake her head, and I—I used to pity her. She gave me to understand she was praying for the gift of speech.”
Here the women laughed shrilly, shook with laughing, as he had laughed long since.