“I am sure it must be. So you write about queens, too, Mr. Knowles. I thought Americans scorned royalty. And what is his queen's name, Miss Cahoon? Is it Scriptural?”
“Oh, no indeed! Besides, all Americans' names aren't out of the Bible, any more than the names in England are. That man who wanted to let us his house in Copperhead—no, Leatherhead—funny I should forget THAT awful name—he was named Solomon—Solomon Cripps... Why, what is it?”
Miss Morley's smile and the mischievous twinkle had vanished. She looked startled, and even frightened, it seemed to me.
“What is it, Frances?” repeated Hephzy, anxiously.
“Nothing—nothing. Solomon—what was it? Solomon Cripps. That is an odd name. And you met this Mr.—er—Cripps?”
“Yes, we met him. He had a house he wanted to let us, and I guess we'd have taken it, too, only you seemed to hate the name of Leatherhead so. Don't you remember you did? I don't blame you. Of the things to call a pretty town that's about the worst.”
“Yes, it is rather frightful. But this, Mr.—er—Cripps; was he as bad as his name? Did you talk with him?”
“Only about the house. Hosy and I didn't like him well enough to talk about anything else, except religion. He and his wife gave us to understand they were awful pious. I'm afraid we wouldn't have been churchy enough to suit them, anyway. Hosy, here, doesn't go to meetin' as often as he ought to.”
“I am glad of it.” The young lady's tone was emphatic and she looked as if she meant it. We were surprised.
“You're glad of it!” repeated Hephzy, in amazement. “Why?”