“Oh, here are Mrs. Stamford and Dick,” said Bill.
Voices were heard from the hall.
“No, thank you,” in Mrs. Stamford’s croaky, distinct voice.
Mrs. Jebb in a vague, persuasive undertone.
“No, my dear woman, I can’t and won’t wash my hands again. Do you think they’re as dirty as my gloves?”
Indeed, as the Squire’s wife came forward to greet her host, it could be plainly seen that her wash-leather gloves had known long and faithful service.
“Your housekeeper nearly pushed me up the stairs,” she said indignantly to Andy. “What’s she mean by it?”
“Well, Mr. Deane seemed rather anxious we should wash our hands,” laughed Norah, coming carelessly to Andy’s assistance. “I know what it is. The Vicarage is sacred, and you wash your hands when you enter in the same way as you take off your shoes at the door of a mosque.”
“The—the fact is,” said Andy, “Mrs. Jebb has made everything as smart as she could upstairs, and I expect she wanted you to see.”
“Oh, poor thing! I say, Mrs. Stamford, let us go after all. She’ll be so disappointed,” said Elizabeth.