Poor Miss Dimpleton became white and then crimson, and stood rooted to the spot. The two clergymen turned their backs and covered their faces with both hands in suppressed convulsions; while Lesbia leant against a tree and screamed unrestrainedly. The other ladies choked in their pocket-handkerchiefs; several of the hindermost of the vanishing congregation turned round with a smile at Lesbie’s boisterous merriment. Even Fidgfumblasquidiot, who with her mother was among the last, looked back over her shoulder for ghosts, and then laughed outright.
‘Are you clean out of your mind, Lockstable?’ asked the vicar, as soon as he could speak. ‘The name of an apostle—Bummingby!’
‘Aw no—not an apostle,’ drawled Mr Lockstable, with the utmost composure; ‘not an apostle, bless you! The ironmonger at Frogmore, who can furbish up Miss Newman’s bicycle.
‘Oh, I understand,’ said the vicar, with a bow. ‘The explanation was needed, and is satisfactory.’
‘You have nearly killed poor Miss Dimpleton,’ said Mr Smeeth.
‘Now, Lesbie, hold up, can’t you—you'll hurt yourself if you go on like that,’ remonstrated her uncle, though with difficulty commanding his own countenance.
The young girl made no answer, but still clung to the tree with her mouth wide open, and her eyes invisible.
‘Sorry to have spoken out of season, Miss Dimpleton, apologised Athelstan; ‘but, fact is, we were at cross purposes. You were thinking about the Bible, I was thinking about the bicycle; that’s how the mistake arose.’
‘And pray, sir, which do you consider is the more fitting subject to think about when just out of church on Sunday? she asked sternly.
‘Why, fact is, I can’t ride a bicycle, myself; I suppose
