Before Farvel could reply, Clare lifted her head, stood suddenly, and stared Balcome from his disheveled hair to his wide, soft, well-worn shoes. "Oh, allow me, Alan!" she cried. "You know, they're just about to burst, both of 'em!"—for Mrs. Milo was peering at her over a handkerchief, the blue eyes bright with expectancy. "If they don't know the worst in five seconds, there'll be an explosion sure!" She laughed harshly. Then with mock ceremony, and impudently, "Mr. Balcome,—and dear Mrs. Milo, permit me to introduce myself. I am your charming clergyman's beloved bride." She curtsied.
No explosion could have brought Mrs. Milo to her feet with more celerity. While Balcome stumbled backward, the red of his countenance taking on an apoplectic greenish tinge.
"Bride?" he cried.
"Wife?" gasped Mrs. Milo, hollowly.
But almost instantly the blue eyes lighted with a smile. She put back her bonneted head to regard Clare from under lowered lashes. "Ah!" she sighed in relief. No longer was there need to fear publicity for her son; here was a situation that insured against it.
"Yes, you feel better, don't you?" commiserated Clare, sarcastically.
"—Tuh!"
Balcome was blinking harder than ever. "Well, I'll be damned!" he vowed under his breath.
By now Mrs. Milo's smile had grown into a clear, joyous, well-modulated laugh. "Oh, ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!—Wife!" she exulted. "That is most interesting! Hm!—And it changes everything, doesn't it?"—this to no one in particular. She reseated herself, studying the floor thoughtfully, finding her glasses meanwhile, and tapping a finger with them gently. "Hm!—Ah!—Yes."
Balcome replied to her, and with no idea of sparing her feelings. "Yes, that puts quite a different face on things," he agreed; "—on what Wallace has done. The home of his best friend!"
"Let's not talk about it!" begged Farvel.