"Who am I? Well, you certainly have nerve—" the astounded Jack was beginning.
"He's Mr. Jack," Matilda put in. "Jack De Peyster."
"Ah, young Mr. De Peyster!" Mr. Pyecroft's eyebrows went up slightly and a shrewd light flashed into his rounded eyes and was at once gone, and again his face was blandly clerical. "It is, indeed, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. De Peyster. And, pray, who is this?" with a suave gesture toward Mary.
"That, sir, is my wife!" Jack announced, stiff with anger.
Again Mr. Pyecroft's eyes flashed shrewdly, and again were clerically rounded.
"My dear sir, that is, indeed, surprising. I have seen no public notice of your marriage. And I watch the marriage announcements quite closely—which is rather natural, for, if I may be permitted to mention it, I myself am frequently called upon to perform the holy rites." His face clouded with what seemed a painful suspicion. "I trust, sir, that you are really married?"
"Why, damn you—"
"Sir, you must not thus address the cloth!" sternly interposed Mr. Pyecroft. "It is our duty to speak frankly, and to make due inquiry into the propriety of such relations. However, since you say so, I am sure the affair is strictly correct." His voice softened, became nobly apologetic. "No harm has been meant, and if any offense has been felt, I assure you of my deepest regrets."
"See here, who the devil are you?" demanded Jack.
Mr. Pyecroft turned to Matilda.