"Well, well, well," Mrs. Barraclough acceded, "if he isn't he certainly wore one—a black and white straw of a shape and pattern which I believe you moderns call 'boaters.' There, the kettle is boiling. Run along and leave me to myself."
After the two girls had departed Mrs. Barraclough stroked the end of her chin with a sensitive forefinger and murmured:
"I wonder what that man is here for? It's queer—I wish I didn't think—Oh, well!"
She leaned forward and poured herself out a cup of tea. A discreet cough caused her to start and rise quickly.
In the centre of the room stood Mr. Alfred Bolt, looking for all the world like the comic paper idea of a parson. A huge, black frock coat hung in festoons over his globular form, his scarlet face was wreathed in smiles. In his hand he carried a black and white straw hat and a pair of black kid gloves. He placed the hat in the middle of his waist line and bowed apologetically.
"I beg your pardon—I do indeed beg your pardon."
Mrs. Barraclough was equal to the occasion and presented a perfect example of mid-Victorian austerity.
"May I ask, sir, why you enter my house other than by the front door?
And also what persuaded you to address me in the lane this afternoon?"
"My dear lady," protested Mr. Bolt with a world of unction. "I come from a part of the country where formality is unknown and where a minister—a minister of the gospel—enters into the hearts and the homes of men and of women by the shortest possible route."
"Fiddlesticks," said Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.