Bundock relaxed in beams. “I’m wonderfully pleased with you, Mrs. Flynt,” he said, handing Caleb the letter. “You’re a shining example, for all you stand up for that chit. When I think of Deacon Mawhood’s wife and how she defies him with that bonnet of hers——!”
“What sort of bonnet?” said Martha, pricking up her ears.
“You haven’t heard?” Bundock’s satisfaction increased. “It’s like the Queen’s—drat her! I mean, drat Mrs. Mawhood—made with that new plait—‘Brilliant’s’ the name. They turn the border of one edge of the straw inwards and that makes it all splendiferous.”
“Pomps and wanities,” groaned Caleb. “And she a deacon’s wife!”
Bundock sniggered. His sympathy with the husband was deeper and older than theology.
“I told you,” Martha reminded Caleb, “what would come of electing a ratcatcher a deacon.”
“A righteous ratcatcher,” maintained Caleb sturdily, “be higher than a hungodly emperor.”
“You haven’t got any emperors,” said the practical Martha.
“And how many kings have joined your Ecclesia?” put in Bundock.
“All the kings of righteousness!” answered Martha in trumpet-tones.