Miss Mapp raised her head and spoke with great animation.
“Dear, quaint Irene, I’m sure, has nothing whatever to do with it,” she said with perfect truth. “Nothing whatever!”
There was no mistaking the sincerity of this, and the Padre, Tillingite to the marrow, instantly concluded that Miss Mapp knew what (or who) was the cause of all this unique disturbance. And as she bent her head again over the chrysanthemums, and quite distinctly grew brick-red in the face, he felt that delicacy prevented his inquiring any further.
“What are you going to do, dear Padre?” she asked in a low voice, choking with emotion. “Whatever you decide will be wise and Christian. Oh, these violent men! Such babies, too!”
The Padre was bursting with curiosity, but since his delicacy forbade him to ask any of the questions which effervesced like sherbet round his tongue, he propounded another plan.
“I think my duty is to go straight to the Major,” he said, “who seems to be the principal in the affair, and tell him that I know all—and guess the rest,” he added.
“Nothing that I have said,” declared Miss Mapp in great confusion, “must have anything to do with your guesses. Promise me that, Padre.”
This intimate and fruitful conversation was interrupted by the sound of two pairs of steps just outside, and before Withers had had time to say “Mrs. Plaistow,” Diva burst in.
“They have both taken the 11.20 tram,” she said, and sank into the nearest chair.
“Together?” asked Miss Mapp, feeling a sudden chill
