“'Tis the characteristic rashness of folk about to enter wedlock,” said Mr. Caryll, as he approached the table with his lordship, his eyes as he spoke turning full upon the bride.
My lord laughed, musically enough, but overloud for a man of brains or breeding. “Marry in haste, eh?” quoth he.
“You are penetration itself,” Mr. Caryll praised him.
“'Twill take a shrewd rogue to better me,” his lordship agreed.
“Yet an honest man might worst you. One never knows. But the lady's patience is being taxed.”
It was as well he added that, for his lordship had turned with intent to ask him what he meant.
“Aye! Come, Jenkins. Get on with your patter. Gaskell,” he called to his man, “stand forward here.” Then he took his place beside the lady, who had risen, and stood pale, with eyes cast down and—as Mr. Caryll alone saw—the faintest quiver at the corners of her lips. This served to increase Mr. Caryll's already considerable cogitations.
The parson faced them, fumbling at his book, Mr. Caryll's eyes watching him with that cold, level glance of theirs. The parson looked up, met that uncanny gaze, displayed his teeth in a grin of terror, fell to trembling, and dropped the book in his confusion. Mr. Caryll, smiling sardonically, stooped to restore it him.
There followed a fresh pause. Mr. Jenkins, having lost his place, seemed at some pains to find it again—amazing, indeed, in one whose profession should have rendered him so familiar with its pages.
Mr. Caryll continued to watch him, in silence, and—as an observer might have thought, as, indeed, Gaskell did think, though he said nothing at the time—with wicked relish.