The door opened and Jane came in with an abnormally large whiskey and soda which she nearly dropped at the sight of the visitor.
"Oh! Mrs. Barraclough!" said Bolt, pointing an accusing finger.
But the old lady was equal to the moment.
"And drink," she said, seizing the glass and swallowing an immense gulp that almost paralysed the muscles of her throat.
Mr. Bolt smiled cynically and took his gloves from Flora's outstretched hand.
"Gloves are so expensive nowadays, are they not?" he asked.
"To be frank, Mr. Bolt, I do not wish to discuss with you either gloves or Christianity," said Mrs. Barraclough. "I would be glad if you would kindly leave by the way you came."
"I was about to do so, madam, after first thanking you for your hospitality."
Maybe it was appreciation of his mother's inflexible bearing that caused Anthony to relax, but whatever the reason the result was disastrous. There was a small table alongside of where he stood hidden upon which was a vase of sweet peas. Anthony's elbow struck and overset it. There was a splash of water and a tinkle of glass.
The three women held their breath and Mr. Bolt's eyebrows went up and down twice very quickly. Then he smiled.