She was too late, for directly after Salis entered, with the presentation surplice over his arm.
Some one turned red in the face. It may have been Mrs Berens, or it may have been Salis; and, in either case, the colour was reflected. Certainly both looked warm.
Salis was the first to recover his equanimity and greet the visitor.
“I did not know you had company, Mary,” he said. “I was going to ask you to alter the buttons at the neck of this. It is too tight.”
“Then you are going to wear it?” said Mary, with the first display of malicious fun that had shone in her eyes since her accident.
“Wear it? Well, yes; I suppose I must,” said Salis gruffly. “I can’t afford to buy myself a new one. Only a beggarly, hard-up curate, you see, Mrs Berens.”
“Oh, Mr Salis!” faltered the lady.
“And I really was ashamed of my surplice on Sunday. Mary here patched and darned all she could; but I looked a sad tatterdemalion. Didn’t you think so?”
“I? Oh, no, Mr Salis; I was thinking of your discourse.”
“But I didn’t wear it during the discourse,” said Salis slowly.