“I’ve lost my parish,” he said jestingly, “and, being an inveterate match-maker, am on the qui vive for a job. But if father says ‘No’ we must wait till mother has a word. Now for the other pair.—What of you?”
Irene blushed scarlet, and dropped her serviette; Dalroy, though flabbergasted, happily hit on a way out.
“I’m surprised at you, monsieur!” he cried. “Look at mademoiselle, and then run your eye over me. Did ever pretty maid wed such a scarecrow?”
“I must refer that point to mademoiselle,” retorted the priest. “I don’t think either of you would choose a book by the cover.”
“Ah. At last I know the worst,” laughed Dalroy. “Who would believe that I once posed as the Discobulus in a tableau vivant?”
“What’s that?” demanded Joos.
Dalroy hesitated. Neither his French nor German was equal to the translation.
“A quoit-thrower,” suggested Irene.
“Quoits!” sniffed the miller. “I’ll take you on at that game any day you like for twenty francs every ringer.”