“Now,” said the manufacturer of the sermon, “I must have a little treacle. I suppose those bumpkins will like it, but not much, I hate it myself. It is ridiculous. And I can dish up a trifle of flummery in here and there conveniently, and—let me see. I’ll work up to a story near the tail somehow. But what heading shall I give my discourse? ’Pon my word I don’t know what its subject is—we’ll call it General Piety. That will do admirably. Yes, General Piety. Come in! Who’s there?”
A servant entered and said that there were Mr. Menaida and the lady that was married that morning, at the door, wanting to speak with him. Should she show them into the study?
Mr. Mules looked at his brandy and water, then at his array of material for composition, and then at his neckerchief on the floor, and said: “No, into the drawing-room.” The maid was to light the candles. He would put on his collar and be with them shortly.
So the sermon had to be laid aside.
Presently Mr. Desiderius Mules entered his drawing-room, where Judith, Uncle Zachie, and Jamie were awaiting him.
“A late visit, but always welcome,” said the rector. “Sorry I kept you waiting, but I was en deshabille. What can I do for you now, eh?”
Judith was composed, she had formed her resolution.
She said, “You married me this morning when I was unconscious. I answered but one of your questions. Will you get your prayer-book and I will make my responses to all those questions you put to me when I was in a dead faint.”
“Oh, not necessary. Sign the register and it is all right. Silence gives consent, you know.”
“I wish it otherwise, particularly, and then you can judge for yourself whether silence gives consent.”