As we waited for Mary Ellen, I said, suddenly to Angel:
"Angel, what made you ask the Bishop to sing 'John Peel'? Did you know Harry was going to sing in the hall?"
"Oh, Harry and I fixed that up this morning," replied my senior, airily. "I kept it to myself, 'cos I didn't want any interference, see?"
Mary Ellen, opening the door at this moment, prevented a scuffle, though I was in too happy a mood to quarrel with any one.
Mrs. Handsomebody was surprisingly civil about our visit. She showed great interest in the return of the Bishop's only son. Was he a nice young man? she asked. Was he nice-looking? Did the Bishop appear to be overjoyed to see him?
We three were seated on three stiff-backed chairs, our backs to the wall. Angel and I told her as much as was good for her to know of the adventure.
The Seraph felt that he was being ignored, so when a pause came, he remarked in that throaty little voice of his:
"It's a vewy bad fing to be boiled in oil."
"What's that?" snapped Mrs. Handsomebody. "Say that again!"
"It's a vewy bad fing to be boiled in oil," reiterated The Seraph suavely, "thirty-nine of 'em
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