As she spoke she took up the curate’s long coat, and held it ready for him to put on, tip-toeing to enable him to thrust his long thin arms into the sleeves, and then tip-toeing a little more to reach up and give him a hearty kiss.
“There, I won’t be very cross,” she cried, “only there never was such a thoughtless, tiresome man before. Just look at your hands!”
“It’s only vine-juice, my dear Mary,” he said, looking at his long thin fingers in turn.
“Well, come along. You will have time to go and wash them while I change my shoes and stockings. Just look there.”
Miss Mary Rosebury made no hesitation about drawing her grey cloth dress aside to display a very prettily-shaped pair of feet and ankles, soaked with dew and muddied by the garden paths, before taking her brother, as it were, into custody and leading him up to the house.
Five minutes later they were in the prettily-furnished dining-room, before a most temptingly spread breakfast-table, where everything was clean and neat as the home of an old bachelor, tended by a maiden sister, might be expected to be. There were flowers and hand-painted screens; the linen was snowy white, and the eggs, and butter, and cream were as delicious as the coffee.
The morning prayers were read in presence of Cook and Jane; then the coffee was poured out in a dark amber stream, and for the first time the Reverend Arthur smiled.
“Really, my dear Mary,” he said, “I don’t think any two people could be happier than we are.”
“Than we should be if you would not do such foolish things, Arthur,” said the little lady, sharply.
“Foolish things, my dear?” he replied, rather blankly.