'Interesting chorus,' observed the Reverend Mr. Sanders.
Prudence Jane paid no heed to this interruption.
'It's hanging down her back now,' she pursued, launching upon the details with her usual aplomb. 'It comes clear down to here.' And standing up, she indicated a point halfway between her ankle-ties and the bottom of her ridiculous skirt.
The minister gazed fascinated. Prudence Jane sat down again.
'She washed it with Packer's Tar Soap,' she said, her eyes fixed upon her victim.
She was quite unable to make out whether Aunt Annie was right about ministers or not. The Reverend Mr. Sanders looked like the Sphinx.
'She gave a piece to a gentleman once,' went on Prudence Jane, warming to her work. 'He wasn't a very nice gentleman. He was a—a—' she hesitated a moment over a fitting climax,—'a—a Piskerpalyan,' she finished.
'Mercy!' said the Reverend Mr. Sanders, finding his voice at last. 'And what, may I ask, are you?'
Prudence Jane looked faintly surprised.
'I,' she said, with pride and composure, 'am an Orthy Dox Congo Gationist.'