temper, did not exist in Tilling. Tilling was far too respectable.
The Padre considered this a moment.
“I am betraying no confidence,” he said, “because no one has confided in me. But there certainly is a lady in this town—I do not allude to Miss Irene—who has long enjoyed the Major’s particular esteem. May not some deprecating remark—”
Wee wifie gave a much louder squeal than usual.
“He means poor Elizabeth,” she said in a high, tremulous voice. “Fancy, Kenneth!”
Diva, a few seconds before, had seen no reason why the Padre should drink the rest of her port, and was now in the act of drinking some of that unusual beverage herself. She tried to swallow it, but it was too late, and next moment all the openings in her face were fountains of that delicious wine. She choked and she gurgled, until the last drop had left her windpipe—under the persuasion of pattings on the back from the others—and then she gave herself up to loud, hoarse laughter, through which there shrilled the staccato squeaks of wee wifie. Nothing, even if you are being laughed at yourself, is so infectious as prolonged laughter, and the Padre felt himself forced to join it. When one of them got a little better, a relapse ensued by reason of infection from the others, and it was not till exhaustion set in, that this triple volcano became quiescent again.
“Only fancy!” said Evie faintly. “How did such an idea get into your head, Kenneth?”
His voice shook as he answered.
“Well, we were all a little worked up this morning,” he said. “The idea—really, I don’t know what we have all been laughing at—”
