“Yes,” he said to himself, “it will be the best. Such matters are better checked in their incipient state. I will go and see her at once.”
He faced round, glanced at his watch, saw that it was only eleven, and walked sharply in the direction of Kilby Farm, to find the Churchwarden away from home, but Mrs Portlock ready to receive him with a most gracious smile.
“I’m sure you must be tired after your walk, Mr Mallow,” she said. “Sit down by the fire. What cold weather we are having! You’ll take a glass of my home-made wine and a bit of cake?”
The Rector would rather not, but Mrs Portlock insisted upon getting the refreshments out of the fireside cupboard, extolling the wine the while.
“I’m sure you’d like it,” she said. “Your son had some only last night, and he said it was better than any sherry he had ever tasted.”
“My son—last night?” said the Rector, quickly. “Which son?”
“Mr Cyril; he drank four glasses of it, and praised it most highly.”
She poured out a glass, and the Rector drew it to him, and sat gazing at the clear, amber liquid, hesitating as to how he should begin, while Mrs Portlock stole a glance at the mirror to see if her cap was straight, and wished she had known of her visitor’s coming, so that she might have put on a silk dress, and the cap with the maroon ribbons and the gold acorn.
“Cyril said that he was down the town last night with Frank,” said the Rector to himself. “He fears my words, and he is playing false, or he would not have been ashamed to answer that he was here.”
“How the time seems to fly, Mrs Portlock!” said the Rector at last, biting his lip with annoyance at the want of originality of the only idea he could set forth.