Mr. Welles felt an apprehension about the turn things were taking.
Vincent, he felt sure, was on the verge of being up to something. And he
did not want to risk offending Mrs. Crittenden. He stood up. "Thank you
very much for telling us about the minister and his wife, Mrs.
Crittenden. I think we'll go right along down to the village now, and
pay a call on them. There'll be time enough before dinner." Vincent of
course got up too, at this, saying, "He's the most perfect old
housekeeper, you know. He's kept the neatest flat for himself and that
aged aunt of his for seventy years."

"_Seventy!_" cried Mr. Welles, scandalized at the exaggeration.

"Oh, more or less," said Vincent, laughing. Mr. Welles noticed with no
enthusiasm that his eyes were extremely bright, that he smiled almost
incessantly, that he stepped with an excess of his usual bounce.
Evidently something had set him off into one of his fits of wild high
spirits. You could almost feel the electricity sparkle from him, as it
does from a cat on a cold day. Personally, Mr. Welles preferred not to
touch cats when they were like that.

"When are you going back to the city, Mr. Marsh?" asked Mrs. Crittenden,
as they said good-bye at the door.

Vincent was standing below her on the marble step. He looked up at her
now, and something about his expression made Mr. Welles think again of
glossy fur emitting sparks. He said, "I'll lay you a wager, Mrs.
Crittenden, that there is one thing your Ashley underground news-service
has not told you about us, and that is, that I've come up not only to
help Mr. Welles install himself in his new home, but to take a somewhat