The tall, very thin curate of Little Magnus looked dreamily up at the window, and then down at his feet, stooping a good deal to obtain a nearer view. Slowly rising, he looked up at the window again, took off his soft felt hat, smoothed his thin grey hair, and said slowly:
“No, my dear, I think not.”
“But I’m sure you must be, Arthur; it’s a very heavy dew?” cried the little lady, emphatically.
“Yes, my dear Mary,” he replied, in a slow, deprecating way, “it is a very heavy dew, but I have got on my goloshes.”
“Ho!” exclaimed the little lady, and she disappeared.
The Reverend Arthur Rosebury began to make a peculiar humming noise, somewhat suggestive of a large bumble-bee trying to practise a chant, which was his idea of singing, and was walking slowly off towards a laurel-shaded walk when the little lady once more appeared at the window.
“Arthur!”
“Yes, my dear Mary?”
“Don’t you go far away; breakfast won’t be long.”
“No, my dear Mary.”