“They didn't act a bit like ministers,” she said. “They didn't ask us to come to meetin' nor hint at prayin' with the family or anything, yet they looked for all the while like two Methodist parsons, young ones. A curate is a kind of new-hatched rector, isn't he?”
“Not exactly,” I answered. “He is only partially hatched. But, whatever you do, don't tell them they look like Methodists; they wouldn't consider it a compliment.”
Hephzy was a Methodist herself and she resented the slur. “Well, I guess a Methodist is as good as an Episcopalian,” she declared. “And they don't ACT like Methodists. Why, one of 'em smoked a pipe. Just imagine Mr. Partridge smokin' a pipe!”
Mr. Judson and I played eighteen holes of golf together. He played a little worse than I did and I felt better. The honor of Bayport's golf had been partially vindicated.
While all this was going on our patient remained, for the greater part of the time, in her room. She was improving steadily. Doctor Bayliss, whom I had asked to attend her, declared, as his London associates had done, that all she needed was rest, quiet and the good air and food which she was certain to get in Mayberry. He, too, like the physician at Bancroft's, seemed impressed by her appearance and manner. And he also asked similar embarrassing questions.
“Delightful young lady, Miss Morley,” he observed. “One of our English girls, Knowles. She informs me that she IS English.”
“Partly English,” I could not help saying. “Her mother was an American.”
“Oh, indeed! You know she didn't tell me that, now did she.”
“Perhaps not.”
“No, by Jove, she didn't. But she has lived all her life in England?”