“Oh! To St. Benedict’s,” replied Gertrude. “They have the most lovely altar-cloth I ever saw. But the curate intones very badly.”
“As badly as pa?” asked Minna.
“That’s impossible,” said Francis with a long chuckle.
There was some chatter, circulation of gossip got at the church door, and then with some anxiety Mrs. Folyat looked across the long table at her husband and said:
“Are you going to tell them, Frank?”
Francis had his mouth full and could only say “Hum! Ha!”
“What is it?” Frederic turned a little pale and wondered what was coming. His misdeeds, taken collectively, were very trivial, but he knew from experience that any one of them taken singly, robbed of its context and placed under the scrutiny of other eyes, would assume gigantic proportions.
“Have all the Folkestone Folyats died and left us all their money? Or has uncle William come back from India with a gigantic fortune?” Minna was rushing wildly ahead on all the strangest possibilities when Francis finished his mouthful and cleared his throat.
“No,” he said. “I have heard from your brother Serge.”