I shared his anxiety, being suspicious that in the event of a postponement the store of “bright fifty cents and watered ribbins” might prove inexhaustible.
Then very leisurely the green baize doors swung open and without undue haste or excitement in walked the curate.
“Ah!” we four said breathlessly.
“Ah, my young friends,” said the curate, and seemed to include us all—and at the time this did not impress me as impossible—“I have been until this moment detained at the bedside of a sick parishioner. I regret that I am five minutes tardy.”
“Why, sir—why, sir—” stammered Evan, “we meant—we didn’t mean—”
The curate looked his perplexity.
“Is this not the same?” he inquired, adjusting his pince-nez and throwing his head back. “Did you not make an appointment with me for six-fifteen to-day? Surely I have not mistaken the day?”
At this young Evan burst into a laugh that sorely tried the echoes of the anteroom.
“Bless me!” he cried, “if I ain’t forgot to tell ’im not to come!”
So there we were, snug as a planned-out wedding with invitations and bells.