Harry looked round with an unmistakable expression of paternal pride; Dick, Arnold, Concha and Rory exploded into their several handkerchiefs; Jollypot murmured, “Dear little girl!” The Doña looked sphinx-like; and Teresa glanced nervously at David.
“I’m awfully sorry, Anna, but I fear I can’t do that for you—for one thing, I’m not yet a priest,” he answered, blushing crimson.
“By the way, Mr. Munroe, when are you going to be ordained?” asked the Doña suavely. “Let me see ... it could be in September, Our Lady’s birth month, couldn’t it? I read an article by a Jesuit Father the other day about the ‘Save the Vocations Fund,’ and he said there was no birthday gift so acceptable to Our Lady as the first mass of a young priest.”
The Doña rarely if ever spoke upon matters of faith in public; so Teresa felt that her words had a definite purpose, and were spoken with concealed malice.
“Good God!” muttered Harry; then, turning to Arnold, he said—“it’s ... it’s ... astounding. Birthday presents of young priests! It’s like the Mountain Mother and her Kouretes!” He spoke in a very low voice; but Teresa overheard.
The smell of this half ridiculous, half sinister, little incident soon evaporated from the atmosphere, and the usual foolish, placid Plasencia talk gurgled happily on:
“Well, if this weather goes on we ought soon to be getting the tennis-court marked ... oh Lord! I wish it was easier to get exercise in this place.”
“Well, I’m sure Anna and Jasper would be only too delighted to race you round the lawn.”
“Oh, by the way, didn’t you say there was a real tennis court somewhere in this neighbourhood?”
“Yes, but it belongs to a noble lord ... oh, by the way, Dad, have you had that field rolled? If there’s to be hay in it this year, it really ought to be, you know.”