During the mêlée of greetings and embraces which ensued, Mr. Rylands, blessing the small deity who had descended to his aid, found time to right a capsized plum-cake and restore four highly-speckled cylinders of bread and butter to the plate on the bottom storey of the cake-stand. He even succeeded in grinding a hopelessly leaky chocolate éclair into the woolly hearthrug with his heel. By the time that the Mainwarings had removed their visitor's furs and escorted her to the fireplace, no trace of the outrage remained. The undetected criminal sat nervously upon the edge of an art nouveau milking-stool in the chimney-corner, waiting to be introduced.
"This is Mr. Rylands, Connie," announced Lady Adela. "Mrs. Carmyle."
"How do you do, Mr. Rylands?" said Connie, holding out her hand with a friendly smile.
Mr. Rylands, with an overfull teacup in one hand and a tiny plate entirely obscured by an enormous bun in the other, rose cautiously to his feet, and bestowing a sickly smile upon Mrs. Carmyle, entered at once upon a series of perilous feats of legerdemain with a view to getting a hand free.
"Let me hold your cup for you," suggested Connie kindly. "That's better!"
The curate, gratefully adopting this expedient, ultimately succeeded in wringing his benefactress by the hand.
"What has the Archdeacon been up to lately?" enquired Connie, gently massaging her fingers.
The curate's face brightened.
"It is curious that you should mention the Archdeacon's name," he said. "The fact is, I have just come from the Arch--"
"Constance dear," enquired Lady Adela in trumpet tones, "did you see anything of Dick on your way down?"