"Oh, they generally have a little sip each from my port," said Mr. Delaney; "it does not do them any harm."
"You may inculcate a taste," said Mrs. Dolman, in a very solemn voice. "In consequence of that little sip, which appears so innocent, those children may grow up drunkards. Early impressions! Well, all I can say is this—when they come to live at the Rectory they will have to be teetotalers. In my house we are all teetotalers. My husband and I both think that we cannot have proper influence on the parishioners unless we do ourselves what we urge them to do."
Iris and Apollo both listened to these strange words with fast-beating hearts. What did they mean? Mrs. Dolman spoke of when they were to live at the Rectory. What rectory? She spoke of a time when they were to live with her. Oh, no; she must be mistaken. Nothing so perfectly awful could be going to happen.
Nevertheless, Iris could scarcely touch her wine, and she pushed aside the tempting macaroon which Mr. Delaney had slipped on to her plate. She found it impossible to eat.
Apollo, after a moment's hesitation, attacked his wine and swallowed his biscuit manfully; but even he had not his usual appetite.
After a short pause, Iris gave a gentle sigh and put both her arms round her father's neck.
"I am tired, father; I should like to go to bed."
"And I want to go too," said Apollo.
"Those are the first sensible remarks I have heard from either of the children," said Mrs. Dolman. "I should think they are dead tired for want of sleep, poor little mites. Good-night, both of you. When you come to live with me—ah! I see you are astonished; but we will talk of that pleasant little scheme to-morrow. Good-night to you both."
"Good-night, Aunt Jane," said Iris.