Fanny shot a glance at him. Her lashes were long, and she could look through them with liquid fire of dark eyes.
“Well?” said she. She threaded a needle with pink silk.
“Is Brookville a very poor village?”
Fanny inserted her pink-threaded needle into the square of linen.
“What,” she inquired with gravity, “is the past tense of bust?”
“I am in earnest.”
“So am I. But I know a minister is never supposed to know about such a word as bust, even if he is bust two-thirds of his life. I’ll tell you. First Brookville was bust, now it’s busted.”
Wesley stared at her.
“Fact,” said Fanny, calmly, starting a rose on the linen in a career of bloom. “First, years ago, when I was nothing but a kid, Andrew Bolton—you have heard of Andrew Bolton?”
“I have heard him mentioned. I have never understood why everybody was so down on him, though he is serving a term in prison, I believe. Nobody seems to like to explain.”