“I might have thought,” he said. “She is always so hasty.”
He put his hand to his chin—a habit with him. Then turned his face to his companion. The Angel was evidently well bred. He was holding up Mrs Jehoram’s sunshade—she had left it on one of the cane chairs—and examining it with extraordinary interest. He opened it. “What a curious little mechanism!” he said. “What can it be for?”
The Vicar did not answer. The angelic costume certainly was—the Vicar knew it was a case for a French phrase—but he could scarcely remember it. He so rarely used French. It was not de trop, he knew. Anything but de trop. The Angel was de trop, but certainly not his costume. Ah! Sans culotte!
The Vicar examined his visitor critically—for the first time. “He will be difficult to explain,” he said to himself
