Enslee began to snicker again, taking some support in his shame from another man's disgrace.
"Well, you know old plutocrat Crane?"
"Not old Deacon Crane," Persis gasped, "that passes the plate at church?"
Willie nodded.
"What can he have to do with any story about Mrs. Tom?"
Enslee he-he'd. "That's the fun of it. Mrs. Tom, it seems—one day when Tom was off to the races—entertained the dear Deacon at a little dinner—served à deux. The Deacon used to give her tips on the market and back them himself for her, and she—well, he was talking about the present-day craze for dancing with bare feet, et cetera; and she vowed that she wasn't ashamed of her feet either; and so she made the Deacon play Mendelssohn's Spring Song on the pianola, and—"
He looked up to find that Chedsey, while pretending to be very busy at the sideboard, wore a smile that extended almost into the ear he perked round for the gossip. Willie choked on his own laughter, and roared:
"Chedsey, leave the room, and don't come back!"
Chedsey slunk away, and Roake became a statue of gravity. Crofts had not heard at all. Willie finished his story without mirth.
"Anyway, Tom Corliss came in unexpectedly just then, and—well, when the Deacon finally got home his wife met him in the hall; he told her he had been sandbagged by a footpad; and she believed him!"