“I defy you,” cried the curate, laughing. “See how guilty he looks, Mary.”
“Hartley!” said Mary reprovingly, and she pressed his shoulder.
“Now that proves it,” said the doctor. “Go to, thou miserable impostor! Have I not seen the fair, plump, sweet widow smiling softly on thee? Have not I heard her sigh over her soup when you have been laying down the law at dinner?”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” said the curate, frowning.
“And have I not seen her look grave when you came to firstly in your Sunday sermon; take out her scent-bottle at secondly; lean back in rapt adoration at thirdly; and when it got to ninthly begin to shed tears, shake her head softly, and look as if she were mentally saying, ‘Oh, what a sermon we have had.’”
“I say, North, don’t banter,” said the curate, with a half-vexed expression.
“Why, you hit me first. Didn’t he, Miss Salis?”
Mary nodded.
“There, sir. Judged by our fair Portia herself. But I must go. Good-bye, old fellow. Chess to-night?”
“By all means,” said the curate.