Mendham from the basket chair. "The man must be mad. Are you sure———"
"Perfectly, my dear. I've told you every word, every incident———"
"Well!" said Mrs. Mendham, and spread her hands. "There's no sense in it."
"Precisely, my dear."
"The Vicar," said Mrs. Mendham, "must be mad."
"This hunchback is certainly one of the strangest creatures I've seen for a long time. Foreign looking, with a big bright-coloured face and long brown hair… It can't have been cut for months!" The Curate put his studs carefully upon the shelf of the dressing-table. "And a kind of staring look about his eyes, and a simpering smile. Quite a silly-looking person. Effeminate."
"But who can he be?" said Mrs. Mendham.
"I can't imagine, my dear. Nor where he came from. He might be a chorister or something of that sort."
"But why should he be about the shrubbery… in that dreadful costume?"
"I don't know. The Vicar gave me no explanation. He simply said, 'Mendham, this is an Angel.'"
"I wonder if he drinks… They may have been bathing near the spring, of course," reflected Mrs. Mendham. "But I noticed no other clothes on his arm."
The Curate sat down on his bed and unlaced his boots.
"It's a perfect mystery to me, my dear." (Flick,
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