"Do you like it where you are?" Joan asked of the shining black silk waistcoat that gleamed beside her.
"Oh, you know...." neighed Mr. Forsyth. "It's all right, you know. The old Bishop's kind enough."
"Bishop Clematis?" said Joan.
"Yes. There ain't enough to do, you know. But I don't expect I'll be there long. No, I don't.... Pity poor Morrison at Pybus dying like that."
Joan of course at once understood the allusion. She also understood that Mr. Forsyth was begging her to bestow upon him any little piece of news that she might have obtained. But that seemed to her mean--spying--spying on her own father. So she only said:
"You're very fond of riding, aren't you?"
"Love it," said Mr. Forsyth, whinnying so exactly like a happy pony that Joan jumped. "Don't you?"
"I've never been on horseback in my life," said Joan. "I'd like to try."
"Never in your life?" Mr. Forsyth stared. "Why, I was on a pony before I was three. Fact. Good for a clergyman, riding----"
"I think it's nearly time for the next dance," said Joan. "Would you kindly take me back to my mother?"