"My dear, I shall leave you to entertain Mr. Sullivan while I change my clothes;" and Cathewe rushed from the room. He was a man who could not hold in laughter very successfully.
"Come over to the fire and warm yourself," said the rector pleasantly. The look of entreaty in Mrs. Cathewe's eyes could not possibly be ignored.
Mr. Sullivan crossed the room, gazing about curiously.
"I haven't th' slightest idea, ma'am," said the famed pugilist, addressing his hostess, "what your husband's graft is; but I understand he's a literary fellow that writes books, an' I suppose he knows why he ast me here t' eat."
Caroline sighed with relief; his voice was very nearly what she expected it would be.
"An' besides," continued Mr. Sullivan, "I'm kind o' curious myself t' see you swells get outside your feed. I ain't stuck on these togs, generally; a man's afraid t' breathe hearty."
Mrs. Cathewe shuddered slightly; Mr. Sullivan was rubbing the cold from his fungus-like ear. What should she do to entertain this man? she wondered. She glanced despairingly at Caroline; but Caroline was looking at the rector, who in turn seemed absorbed in Mr. Sullivan. She was without help; telegraphic communication was cut off, as it were.
"Do you think it will snow to-night?" she asked.
"It looks like it would," answered Mr. Sullivan, with a polite but furtive glance at the window. "Though there'll be a bigger push out to-morrer if it's clear. It's goin' t' be a good fight. D' you ever see a scrap, sir?" he asked, turning to the rector.
Caroline wondered if it was the fire or the rector's own blood which darkened his cheek.