The Reverend Hugh laughed, and Darwen jumped up. "I'll play you a tune, if you'll stand it," he said. He sat down and played, wandering on from one thing to another, ever and anon glancing at the old vicar, then he got up. "Does that bore you?" he asked.
"Bore me? My dear fellow, you are an accomplished musician."
He flushed slightly with pleasure. "I like music. Let's have a trot round the town and show your guv'nor the sights, Carstairs."
"The guv'nor knows the vicar of St James."
"Does he? By Jove! that's good."
So they went avisiting.
The Reverend Moorhouse was short and very broad, he had more the legal than the clerical type of face; an old international Rugby footballer, the impress of the game was still strong on him, vigorous, keen, bluff. It was evident he was pleased to see his old friend, he said so, and invited all three of them to dinner the next night.
The dinner was good; Mrs Moorhouse was plain, stout, chatty, and exceedingly kind; the Misses Moorhouse, two of them, were tall, athletic, and pretty. They talked about hockey and tennis and swimming; the two young men were charmed. Carstairs was quite vivacious, Darwen seemed to scintillate; Mrs Moorhouse watched him with approving eyes, and later on, when he played and sang with the elder Miss Moorhouse, she took possession of him; crossing the room she sat down beside him. "You must come and help us at the church," she said.
"I shall be delighted," he answered, with real pleasure shining in his eyes.
The vicar's wife was business-like and decisive, she fastened him down by compact and contract at once.