Young Bayliss asked a question.
“Are you a—what is it—Republican, Miss Morley?” he inquired.
Miss Morley's eyes dropped disdainfully.
“I am neither,” she said. “My father was a Conservative, of course.”
“Oh, I say! That's odd, isn't it. Your uncle here is—”
“Uncle Hosea, you mean?” sweetly. “Oh, Uncle Hosea is an American. I am English.”
She did not add “Thank heaven,” but she might as well. “Uncle Hosea” shuddered at the name. Young Bayliss grinned behind his blonde mustache. When he left, in company with his father, Hephzy invited him to “run in any time.”
“We're next-door neighbors,” she said, “so we mustn't be formal.”
I was fairly certain that the invitation was superfluous. If I knew human nature at all I knew that Bayliss, Junior, did not intend to let formality stand in the way of frequent calls at the rectory.
My intuition was correct. The following afternoon he called again. So did Mr. Judson. Both calls were casual, of course. So was Mr. Worcester's that evening. He came to bring the “favorite songs” and was much surprised to find Miss Morley in the drawing-room. He said so.