But the crowd did not mind what it was. They held their sides. They clung to each other in helpless mirth. They followed that tall, slim, elegant figure with its incongruous placard as it went with the vicar’s wife round the tent to the stalls. The vicar’s wife talked nervously, and hysterically. “My dear, I couldn’t,” she said afterwards. “I didn’t know how to put it. I couldn’t think of words—and I kept thinking, suppose he knows and means it to be there. It somehow seemed better bred to ignore it.”
The committee clustered together in an anxious group.
“It wasn’t there when he came. Someone must have put it on.”
“My dear, someone must tell him.”
“Or creep up and take it off when he isn’t looking.”
“My dear—one couldn’t. Suppose he turned round when one was doing it, and thought one was putting it on!”
HIS GRACE EXAMINED THE PLACARD, THEN TURNED
TO THE VICAR. “HOW LONG EXACTLY,” HE SAID
SLOWLY, “HAVE I BEEN WEARING THIS?”
“The vicar must tell him—let’s find the vicar. I think it would come better from a clergyman, don’t you?”
“Yes, and he might—well, he couldn’t say much before a clergyman, could he?”