The curate carefully blotted the entries he had made, and returned the heavy books to their place.
"Will you come into the dining-room, Dryland?" said the Vicar, with a certain solemnity. "Mrs Jackson would like to speak to you."
"Certainly."
Mrs. Jackson was reading the Church Times. Her thin, sharp face wore an expression of strong disapproval; her tightly-closed mouth, her sharp nose, even the angular lines of her body, signified clearly that her moral sense was outraged. She put her hand quickly to her massive fringe to see that it was straight, and rose to shake hands with Mr. Dryland. His heavy red face assumed at once a grave look; his moral sense was outraged, too.
"Isn't this dreadful news, Mr. Dryland?"
"Oh, very sad! Very sad!"
In both their voices, hidden below an intense sobriety, there was discernible a slight ring of exultation.
"The moment I saw him I felt he would give trouble," said Mrs. Jackson, shaking her head. "I told you, Archibald, that I didn't like the look of him."
"I'm bound to say you did," admitted her lord and master.
"Mary Clibborn is much too good for him," added Mrs. Jackson, decisively. "She's a saint."