"A-a-a-ah!"—this with a gratified nod. She felt that she had forced the knowledge she wanted, namely that the going of the soloist had something to do with the clergyman. "Well,"—smiling—"I think I have an idea." With a beckon to Mrs. Balcome, she made toward the hall.
Mrs. Balcome came rolling after, the dog worn high against the crêpe cascade. "Perhaps it's just as well that Miss Crosby went," she observed from the door. "Of course, we could screen her with palms. But I think she'd take away from Hattie tomorrow. She's much too pretty—much."
"Puh!" snorted Balcome. He went to slam the door after her.
Now, Hattie turned upon Wallace with sudden intensity. "What has Miss
Crosby to do with Mr. Farvel?" she demanded.
"But does it make any difference, Hattie?" put in Sue, quickly; "—as long as it isn't your Wallace. It doesn't, of course. Mr. Farvel has his own personal affairs, and they're no business of ours—none whatever. Are they? No. And Miss Crosby is charming, and pretty, and—and sweet." Now she in turn faced round upon her brother. "But—but what has Miss Crosby to do with Mr. Farvel?"
"Does it make, any difference to you?" countered Hattie.
"Of course not, Hattie!—Foolish question nine million and nine!—Wallace, she's—she's not—the girl? You know."
He reddened angrily. "She is not!" he exploded. But as Sue, showing plain distrust in his answer, turned toward the passage as if to go in search of Farvel, he caught at her arm almost fiercely—and fearfully. "Oh, no! Not yet!" he begged. "Please, Sue!"
"I believe he ought to know," she declared.
"Do you want him to give up this Church?" he cried. And as she came back slowly, "Oh, trust me, Sue! It's something I can't tell you. But I'm right about it.—Sh!" For Mrs. Milo had re-entered, on her countenance unmistakable signs of triumphant pleasure.