"Angel, what made you ask the Bishop to sing 'John Peel'? Did you know Harry was going to sing in the hall?"
"Oh, Harry and I fixed that up this morning," replied my senior, airily. "I kept it to myself, 'cos I didn't want any interference, see?"
Mary Ellen, opening the door at this moment, prevented a scuffle, though I was in too happy a mood to quarrel with any one.
Mrs. Handsomebody was surprisingly civil about our visit. She showed great interest in the return of the Bishop's only son. Was he a nice young man? she asked. Was he nice-looking? Did the Bishop appear to be overjoyed to see him?
We three were seated on three stiff-backed chairs, our backs to the wall. Angel and I told her as much as was good for her to know of the adventure.
The Seraph felt that he was being ignored, so when a pause came, he remarked in that throaty little voice of his:
"It's a vewy bad fing to be boiled in oil."
"What's that?" snapped Mrs. Handsomebody. "Say that again!"
"It's a vewy bad fing to be boiled in oil," reiterated The Seraph suavely, "thirty-nine of 'em there was—for the captain was stabbed alweady—boilin' away in oil. Their ears was full of it."
Mrs. Handsomebody gripped the arms of her chair, and leaned towards him.