Mrs. Jones looked at her raiment and reflected that her one servant was at mass and would not be back for an hour. She went slowly up-stairs.
“Tom, Tom dear, wake up.”
“What is it?”
“The Reverend Brown has telephoned to know whether the Reverend Smith can send his curate to take his early service.”
“Well, what in the world have I got to do with the peddling out of early services?” snapped Jones, as he turned and shook up his pillows.
“He has to have an answer to his message within fifteen minutes.”
“Well, let Susan take it,” settling back comfortably.
“But Susan has gone to mass.”
“And I suppose that means that I am to be turned out of my bed at daybreak, and canter half a mile!” cried Jones, in a high and excited voice, as he bounced from his bed and began to grope sleepily for his clothes. His toilet was made amidst grumblings of “Confound their early services, why can’t they stay in bed like Christians, instead of prowling about, and sending men out in the chilly morning air,” etc., etc.