When she was gone, Mrs. Milo rose and hastened to Dora, who seemed on guard as she waited, leaned against the library door. "Who is telephoning?" she asked.
Dora's eyes narrowed—to hide their smile. "Oh, Mrs. Milo," she answered, intoning gravely, "the fourth verse, of the thirteenth chapter—or is it the ninth?—of Isaiah." With face raised, as if she were still cudgeling her brain, she crossed toward the vestibule.
"Isaiah—Isaiah," murmured Mrs. Milo. Then, as Dora seemed about to escape, "Dora!—I wouldn't speak in parables, my child, when there are others present." She smiled kindly.
"It is the soloist telephoning," explained Dora; then, so deliberately as almost to be impudent, "A girl."
Mrs. Milo showed instant relief. "Oh, the soloist! Such a dear girl.
She sang here a year or so ago. Yes,—Miss Crosby."
Dora out, Mrs. Balcome turned a look of wisdom upon her hostess. "I see," she insinuated, "that we're very much interested in the new minister."
Like that of a startled deer, up came Mrs. Milo's head. "What do you mean?" she demanded.
"If he isn't engaged already, prepare for wedding Number Two."
"Wedding?"
Mrs. Balcome tipped forward bulkily. "Sue," she nodded.