Mrs. Combermere raised her head as the door opened and the tea came in.
"No. I've only seen him in Cathedral. But I've called, and he's coming to- day."
Miss Stiles smiled in her own dark and mysterious way.
"Well, Betsy, my dear, I leave you to find it all out for yourself.... I keep my secrets."
"If you do," said Mrs. Combermere, getting up and going to the tea-table, "it's the first time you ever have. And Ellen," she went on, "I've a bone to pick. I won't have you laughing at my dear Archdeacon."
"Laughing at your Archdeacon?" Miss Stiles' voice was softer and slower than any complaining cow's.
"Yes. I hear you've all been laughing about the elephant. That was a thing that might have happened to any one."
Puddifoot laughed. "The point is, though, that it happened to Brandon. That's the joke. And his new top hat."
"Well, I won't have it. Milk, doctor? Miss Dobell and I agree that it's a shame."
Miss Dobell, who was in appearance like one of those neat silk umbrellas with the head of a parrot for a handle, and whose voice was like the running brook both for melody and monotony, thus suddenly appealed to, blushed, stammered, and finally admitted that the Archdeacon was, in her opinion, a hero.