"Veronica Vereker," replied Mr Blunt, turning and shaking his fist as he retreated down the slope towards Tinkler's Den, "next time I get hold of you I will wring your little neck!"
Miss Veronica Vereker kissed the tips of her fingers to him.
"We will now join," she proclaimed, in a voice surprisingly reminiscent of the throaty tenor which Mr Blunt reserved for his ecclesiastical performances, "in singing Hymn number two hundred and thirty-three; during which those who desire to leave the church are recommended to do so, as it is my—turn—to—preach—the—sermon!"
But by this time the foe, running rapidly, was out of earshot.
Half-an-hour later Stiffy, who was a gregarious animal, went in search of his younger sister, whom he discovered, recently returned from her sylvan skirmish with the curate, laboriously climbing into a hammock in the orchard.
"Nicky, will you come and play cricket?" he asked politely.
"I suppose that means will I come and bowl to you?" replied Nicky.
"No. You can bat if you like."
"Well, I won't do either," said Nicky agreeably.
"What shall we do, then?" pursued Stiffy, with unimpaired bonhomie.