"Good evening, Mrs. Dobbs," said the organist, advancing to shake hands, and taking no notice of his wife's inquiry.
"How are you, Weatherhead? I suppose you were napping—having forty winks in the twilight, eh?"
"No, Mr. Weatherhead and I were chatting," said Mrs. Dobbs.
"Chatting in this kind of blind man's holiday, were you? I should have thought you could hardly see to talk!"
"See to talk! Oh, Bassy, what an expression! You do say the drollest things!" exclaimed Mrs. Simpson with a giggle. "Doesn't he, Mrs. Dobbs? Did you ever hear——?"
Mrs. Dobbs, for all reply, hospitably stirred the fire until it blazed, helped Mrs. Simpson to remove her bonnet and cloak, and placed her in a chair near her own. Mr. Simpson took his accustomed seat, and the four persons drew round the fire, whilst Martha, Mrs. Dobbs's middle-aged servant, set out a little card-table, and disposed the candles on it in two old-fashioned, spindle-shanked, silver candlesticks. It was all done according to long-established custom, which was seldom deviated from in any particular.
"And how are you, dear Mrs. Dobbs?" asked Mrs. Simpson, taking her hostess's hand between both her own. "And dear May—where's May?"
"May has been away from home on a visit since yesterday morning. She won't come back before Monday."
"And may one ask where she is? It is not, I presume, a Mystery of Udolpho!"
"She is at the Hadlows'."