Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we found out we had each a beautiful home-ruler at home about the same age, who ruled us with a rod of iron. So we had a pleasant chat until I forgot I was the curate’s wife and she her Excellency.
Suddenly the cannon-ball shot in again, in a great hurry, and we rose to our feet. A few presentations had been made to him in the dining-room, and soon everyone was chatting like ordinary folk over coffee cups and cream. About eleven o’clock cards were got out, and the curate and “his reverence’s honoured lady” left. I nearly backed into Mr. Giles as I did so, and he very nearly laughed, but not quite. I never saw Giles laugh.
As we were driving home under the big elms and pines, we kept silence awhile. The first remark came, of course, from me.
“I’m very hungry,” in a plaintive voice.
“And I’m starving,” was the response, as the curate slipped his arm round his little wife’s yellow brocade waist.
“American crackers and apples?” I suggested.
“And a big fire,” said his reverence, drawing my furs closer round me. “You are frozen.”
So, over a blazing fire in our bedroom, we ate crackers and apples to fill the vacuum left by curiosity even after a vice-regal dinner-party.