The Reverend Morton Smalley coloured a little, and, with a proud and happy smile, replied, gently squeezing the hand of Cornelius—
"Thank you, my dear friend; I have indeed obtained the privilege of entering our beloved Church—"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Mr. Trim, peering around, "Smalley always liked the ladies,—ha! ha!"
Mr. Smalley reddened and looked hurt, like a lover who hears his mistress slighted. Cornelius, who still stood with his hand on the shoulder of his friend, slowly turned towards Mr. Trim, to say, in a tone of ice—
"Did you speak, Trim?"
Mr. Trim opened his eyes with an alarmed start, as if he rather expected a sort of sequel to "the little affair" of their early days.
"Why, it is only a joke," he hastily replied; "I like a joke, you know; but who minds me?"
Before Cornelius could answer, Miss O'Reilly closed the discussion by ringing for tea. Mr. Trim, who now seemed gathered up into himself, like a snail in his shell, drank six cups in profound silence, then went back to the fireside, where, shutting his eyes, he indulged in a nap. Miss O'Reilly was as silent as a hostess could well be. I sat near her, unnoticed, but attentive.
Both during and after the meal the conversation was left to Cornelius and his friend. They spoke of Mr. Smalley's prospects; of the Dorsetshire curacy, on which he again dwelt con amore; they talked of old times, laughed over old jokes, and exchanged information concerning old companions and school-fellows, now scattered far and wide.
"What has become of Smith?" asked Cornelius.