A long white hand raised the milk-jug quickly, and the earnest grey eyes which belonged sought the curate’s as he held out his cup.
“Any bad news, Hartley, dear?”
“Bad news? No, no, dear, only one of May’s old worries. The old boy’s got gout again.”
“Has he, dear?”
“Well, he doesn’t say so, but it breathes in that style. He feels it his duty to stir me up now and then, and he generally does it with a sharp stick.”
He glanced as he spoke at Leo, who sipped her tea and read a novel, without apparently heeding what was going on.
“It’s a great shame, Hartley, working so hard in the parish as you do,” said Mary quietly; “while he—”
“Oh, silence! thou reviler of those in high clerical places,” cried the curate merrily, as he inserted his knife in the envelope fold of another missive, and slit it open. “Here’s a letter from North.”
The face of Mary Salis was perfectly composed, but there was a flash from her eyes and an eager look of inquiry as the letter was opened.
“Ha! Busy as a bee! Conferences; lectures. Going to be present at a great operation. Nasty wretch! How he does glory in great operations!”