Gerald hurried away, Mrs. Darrow following him to the door.
"Not a word to anyone about Miriam," he whispered. "And see that Dicky holds his tongue. Mind, you know what depends on it!"
"I believe he's got a sneaking kind of feeling for her still," thought the widow, as she returned to the little drawing-room. Mrs. Parsley was seated in an attitude quite characteristic of her—her chin resting on her hands, and her hands clutching the handle of her huge umbrella. She came to business at once.
"I want you to take the Sunday School for a fortnight, Julia—I'm going up to town."
"Oh, the Sunday School gives me a headache," protested Mrs. Darrow, who had no notion of obliging her enemy. "I haven't taught for years."
"Time you began then. Lady Dane has promised to take a class."
"Lady Dane!" Mrs. Darrow, like Tommy Moore, dearly loved a lord, and the prospect of teaching in the same room as an earl's daughter was irresistibly attractive. "Well, I'll do what you wish, Mrs. Parsley. I'm sure I'm the most unselfish woman in the world."
"Then that's all right," sniffed the vicar's wife. "I thought Lady Dane would fix it. If she isn't above it, I don't think you should be."
"I'm always ready to take my share of the parish work," said Julia. Then her curiosity began to assert itself. "What are you going up to town for?"
Mrs. Parsley waxed more amiable, and rubbed the tip of her nose.