The Rev. Pontifex straightened up and threw out his chest as he replied: 

“It is protecting my flock.  As Leader of the Unified All Souls Baptismal Presbytery, it is my duty to visit the widows and orphans of this community.”

“These people are neither widows or orphans,” objected Miss Deetle.

“They are strangers,” insisted the Rev. Pontifex, “and it is my duty to minister to them—­if they need it.  Furthermore it is my duty to my congregation to find out who is in their midst.  No less than three of the Lady Trustees of my church have asked me who and what these people are and whence they came.”

“The Lady Trustees are a pack of old busybodies,” growled his sister.

Her brother raised his finger warningly.

“Jane, do you know you are uttering a blasphemy?  These Rossmore people have been here two weeks They have visited no one, no one visits them.  They have avoided a temple of worship, they have acted most mysteriously.  Who are they?  What are they hiding?  Is it fair to my church, is it fair to my flock?  It is not a bereavement, for they don’t wear mourning.  I’m afraid it may be some hidden scandal—­”

Further speculations on his part were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Rossmore, who thought rightly that the quickest way to get rid of her unwelcome visitors was to hurry downstairs as quickly as possible.

“Miss Deetle—­Mr. Deetle.  I am much honoured,” was her not too effusive greeting.

The Reverend Pontifex, anxious to make a favourable impression, was all smiles and bows.  The idea of a possible scandal had for the moment ceased to worry him.

“The honour is ours,” he stammered.  “I—­er—­we—­er—­my sister Jane and I called to—­”

“Won’t you sit down?” said Mrs. Rossmore, waving him to a chair.  He danced around her in a manner that made her nervous.

“Thank you so much,” he said with a smile that was meant to be amiable.  He took a seat at the further end of the room and an awkward pause followed.  Finally his sister prompted him: 

“You wanted to see Mrs. Rossmore about the festival,” she said.

“Oh, of course, I had quite forgotten.  How stupid of me.  The fact is, Mrs. Rossmore,” he went on, “we are thinking of giving a festival next week—­a festival with strawberries—­and our trustees thought, in fact it occurred to me also that if you and Mr. Rossmore would grace the occasion with your presence it would give us an opportunity—­so to speak—­get better acquainted, and er—­”

Another awkward pause followed during which he sought inspiration by gazing fixedly in the fireplace.  Then turning on Mrs. Rossmore so suddenly that the poor woman nearly jumped out of her chair he asked: 

“Do you like strawberries?”

“It’s very kind of you,” interrupted Mrs. Rossmore, glad of the opportunity to get a word in edgeways.  “Indeed, I appreciate your kindness most keenly but my husband and I go nowhere, nowhere at all.  You see we have met with reverses and—­”