Mrs. Jehoram helped herself to cake. "I'm sure no woman could play the violin quite like I heard it played this morning."
"Of course, if you say so that settles the matter," said Mrs. Mendham. Mrs. Jehoram was the autocratic authority in Siddermorton upon all questions of art, music, and belles-lettres. Her late husband had been a minor poet. Then Mrs. Mendham added a judicial "Still———"
"Do you know," said Mrs. Jehoram, "I'm half inclined to believe the dear Vicar's story."
"How good of you, Jessie," said Mrs. Mendham.
"But really, I don't think he could have had any one in the Vicarage before that afternoon. I feel sure we should have heard of it. I don't see how a strange cat could come within four miles of Siddermorton without the report coming round to us. The people here gossip so.…"
"I always distrust the Vicar," said Mrs. Mendham. "I know him."
"Yes. But the story is plausible. If this Mr. Angel were some one very clever and eccentric———"
"He would have to be very eccentric to dress as he did. There are degrees and limits, dear."
"But kilts," said Mrs. Jehoram.
"Are all very well in the Highlands.…"
Mrs. Jehoram's eyes had rested upon a black speck creeping slowly across a patch of yellowish green up the hill.
"There he goes," said Mrs. Jehoram, rising, "across the corn field. I'm sure that's him. I can see the hump. Unless it's a man with a sack. Bless me,
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