“And,” I went on listlessly, almost—I felt so sure of it now—“did you not come to church for several Sundays that winter; and on Christmas Day, to Saint Edric’s, in — Square?”
For the first time Mrs Greatrex shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I never remember being in Saint Edric’s in my life.”
Greatrex’s face fell; he had been quite excited and delighted, poor fellow.
“Come, now,” he said again, in a different tone, “are you sure, Bessie? I think you must be mistaken.”
“I think so, too,” I added, a little more eager myself now. “You may have forgotten the name. Saint Edric’s is—” and I went on to describe the church.
“You came with a lady who looked like a governess,” and I concluded with some details as to this person’s appearance.
“Yes,” Mrs Greatrex said, “that sounds like our governess—Mrs Mills; she was with us several years. But it is not only that I was never at Saint Edric’s; I was never at church all those weeks in London at all. I had a bad attack of bronchitis. I remember particularly how vexed I was not to wear my new things, especially as we—” suddenly a curious change of expression came over her face, and just at that instant her husband interrupted her.
“I have it,” he began excitedly, but he got no farther. “Bessie,” he exclaimed, with almost a shriek, “my dearest child, you’ve scalded me!” and he looked up ruefully from the contents of a cup of tea deposited on his knee.
“No, no,” his wife exclaimed, “it was only a little water I was pouring into my cup, and it was not very hot. But come along, I have a cloth in the conservatory, where I was arranging some flowers. I’ll rub it dry in an instant.”