Mrs. Wotnot nodded. “I kept my eyes open yesterday,” the old woman remarked, in the manner of some veteran conspirator in the service of a Privy Counsellor.
“As you happened to be looking for laurel-leaves, I suppose?” said Mr. Taxater, drawing the red curtains across the window, with his expressive episcopal hand. “For laurel-leaves, Mrs. Wotnot, to flavour that excellent custard?”
The old woman nodded. “And you saw?” pursued her master.
“I saw Mr. Luke Andersen and Miss Gladys Romer.”
“Were they as happy as usual—these young people,” asked the theologian mildly, “or were they—otherwise?”
“They were very much what you are pleased to call otherwise,” answered the old lady.
“Quarrelling in fact?” suggested the diplomat, seating himself deliberately in his arm-chair.
“Miss Gladys was crying and Mr. Luke was laughing.”
The Papal Apologist waved his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Wotnot, thank you. These things will happen, won’t they—even in Nevilton? Mr. Luke laughing, and Miss Gladys crying? Your laurel-leaves were very well chosen, my friend. Let me have the rest of that custard tonight! I hope you have not brought back your rheumatism, Mrs. Wotnot, by going so far?”