Mrs. Jackson was a woman of singular penetration, so that it was not strange if she quickly discovered what had happened. Mr. Dryland was taking tea at the Vicarage, whither, with characteristic manliness, he had gone to face his disappointment. Not for him was the solitary moping, nor the privacy of a bedchamber; his robust courage sent him rather into the field of battle, or what was under the circumstances the only equivalent, Mrs. Jackson's drawing-room.
But even he could not conceal the torments of unsuccessful love. He stirred his tea moodily, and his usual appetite for plum-cake had quite deserted him.
"What's the matter with you, Mr. Dryland?" asked the Vicar's wife, with those sharp eyes which could see into the best hidden family secret.
Mr. Dryland started at the question. "Nothing!"
"You're very funny this afternoon."
"I've had a great disappointment."
"Oh!" replied Mrs. Jackson, in a tone which half-a-dozen marks of interrogation could inadequately express.
"It's nothing. Life is not all beer and skittles. Ha! ha!"
"Did you say you'd been calling on Mary Clibborn this afternoon?"
Mr. Dryland blushed, and to cover his confusion filled his mouth with a large piece of cake.