“Pa says no right-minded woman would care to hear her conduct made the subject of open criticism, and if she’d had a ha’porth of modesty, she’d have kept her tongue still. But I know the kind she is. Those pug-nosed women are all alike. Pushing themselves to the front if they have to pay body and soul for it. Have you seen brother James Peter yet?” “Yes. He called the day before yesterday. And I explained to him about her. He was to be at the dinner last night, so he would see her.” Just at this moment, in accordance with the old proverb, brother James Peter made his appearance. He has been previously introduced to the reader at the beginning of this book. Once brother James Peter fell over a footstool, and got lost in the dark, was laughed at by his brother priests, and to this day heard occasional remarks made about his conduct. He remembered very well the source of his misfortunes, and had again scented the innocent cause of them all. He was the first to hiss last night, proving himself to be a true cross-breed of the Serpent. To-day he came in as one with news. He had given his vote; for him the day’s work was over. “You look pale, Sir Priest,” said Miss Groggerton, who would have called up the devil to prove him another, behind his back. “The events of last night have distracted me,” he cried, sitting down. And Miss Groggerton rang for his favourite collation of whisky and ham sandwiches. “Tell us, is it true?” they both cried, as the provisions were being prepared without. “That woman is in the power of the Evil One,” said he solemnly. “And the sooner that little squat animal is taken by the hind leg and cast into the fire—the—better.” “Yes, indeed,” said Miss Groggerton, in joyful anticipation of slaughter. “I believe it’s that frog that gets her a reputation for beauty. Loathsome little thing!” and Susiebelle shivered, and then laughed. “Listen to me,” said James Peter, raising his fat finger. “Make none of your own little spiteful remarks, but listen to me.” Being a priest, he spoke as one in authority, and the women submitted. “That woman,” said he, “is a dangerous and unprincipled character. Three years ago—listen carefully—she came into our temple and pretended to be drunk—dumb, I mean. She used to come and kneel up close to the crimson curtain, and I believe she contaminated it and made it rot. She used to look up at me with her lovely eyes (she has lovely eyes, Mademoiselle Susiebelle, whatever you may think), and point to her lips, and shake her head, and I—I used to pity her. She gave me to understand she was praying for the gift of speech.” Here the women laughed shrilly, shook with laughing, as he had laughed long since.