“Trust her!” chuckled Mr. Kirke again. For he held the profound conviction of most bachelors over forty that no woman can resist a man if he really does his best. “Well—good-night. I must be getting home.”
But Andy asked him to come in for a few minutes, and they went together into the brightly-lighted dining-room, where it did really seem incredible that any one should have asked advice on affairs of the heart from Mr. Kirke.
Andy assumed a demeanour more nearly resembling that of the senior curate than he had shown for weeks, and he was very much the Vicar of Gaythorpe as he rang the bell and ordered light refreshments. But Mr. Kirke was impervious to the change of atmosphere, and remarked when Mrs. Jebb closed the door behind her—the little maid was already in bed—“Been rather a fascinating woman in her day, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Andy started and his eyes began to twinkle, he forgot to be imposing as he caught hold of an idea.
“A very nice woman,” he said warmly. Then he remembered that Mr. Kirke was his friend, and felt bound to add, “She can’t cook—but that’s——” He waved it off with the matchbox.
“Doesn’t look a cook,” said Mr. Kirke, still in his character of the appraising dog. “But fine eyes. Fine eyes.”
Then Mrs. Jebb returned in the toilet which she had worn at the harvest festival service, with more odd bits of white lace and black ribbon floating than seemed possible for one mortal costume to contain, and she glanced at the schoolmaster as she put down the tray.
“Splendid congregation, Mrs. Jebb,” said Mr. Kirke, gallantly assisting with a corner of the cloth.
“Thank you. Oh, excellent. And the decorations so lovely,” said Mrs. Jebb, all aflutter.
Then she retired, and Mr. Kirke remarked—