“Hush, child, don’t profane the Sabbath! Men don’t count in wedding matters,” said Miss Gentry in complex correction. “Nor would I care about the patronage of stage people.”
“But she mayn’t be stage.”
“Like runs to like,” Miss Gentry sighed, and Jinny felt the Colchester romance hovering again. But it did not descend. Instead, Miss Gentry remarked that she ought to have known that it could not be a local beauty. No play-actor with any brains at all could be attracted by anything hereabouts, especially when they could not achieve the acquaintance of women of real attraction and intellect, these preferring the company of cats to that of strolling sinners. Nevertheless, far be it from her wilfully to rob Jinny of a commission.
“I wasn’t thinking of my commission,” Jinny protested with a little flush.
“I couldn’t dream of it otherwise. Squibs and I need so little and have more work than we can manage.”
“Squibs?” Jinny murmured.
“The place is overrun with rats,” Miss Gentry explained. “What will it be when the cold drives them in from the ditches? However, fortunately that horrible old Mawhood stands compelled to clear the cottage before winter. That was the compromise our too kindly pastor let him off with.”
“So you told me. Shall I order the Deacon at once?”
“The Deacon?” Miss Gentry sniffed. “Bishops they’ll call themselves next.”
“There is a bishop,” Jinny reminded her. “Bishop Harrod.”