“What name, if any?” I ask to know. I made my voice show insults peculiar to fashion.
“I am Rev. Mr. Scornaway, of St. Lucre parish,” he deliver. “I have came to tea as usual on Wedsday.”
“This is no place for a clergy,” I dictate warnfully. “You can save your reputation by taking it away with you.”
“What do you mean by your meaning?” he snagger. “Do not Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones’s cards say Tea on Wedsday?”
“This are not the kind of Wedsday you think it is,” I abrupt.
“Poor benightied heathen!” he narrate. “Have I not been arriving here for tea for the last twenty (20) years since date when Hon. Cyrus J. Jones was President of National Distrust Co.? Have I not been here to talk church-work with elderly ladies while setting down amidst famus statesmen and talk on topics? Have I not met most greatest dignity in America within this house?”
“You will not meet them now,” I clabber, “or if so they will be doing something else.”
“Pleasantly permit me to pass inside,” he snarrel clergetically.
“O not to do!” I holla with Samurai knockles preventing his forthstepping. “If I relate what horror that tea is now doing you will not dare to go inside with your profession.”
“Tell me the entire!” he commit bravely.