The canon was silent, displaying an embarrassment which did not escape the vigilant observation of the sisters, who exchanged a meaning glance.
"Well may you remind us of the fact, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, "for she has discarded the last semblance of mourning."
"Time flies so fast," said the canon, as though impelled to defend the absent. "It is—getting on for three years since poor Sir Timothy died."
"It is but two years and four months," said Miss Crewys.
"It is thirty-three years since the admiral went aloft," said Lady Belstone, who often became slightly nautical in phrase when alluding to her departed husband; "and look at me."
The pocket-handkerchief she held up was deeply bordered with ink.
Orthodox streamers floated on either side her severe countenance.
The canon looked and shook his head. He felt that the mysteries of a widow's garments had best not be discussed by one who dwelt, so to speak, outside them.
"Poor Mary can do nothing gradually," said Miss Crewys. "She leapt in a single hour out of a black dress into a white one."
"Her anguish when our poor Timothy succumbed to that fatal operation surpassed even the bounds of decorum," said Lady Belstone, "and yet—she would not wear a cap!"
She appealed to the canon with such a pathetic expression in her small, red-rimmed, grey eyes that he could not answer lightly.