Snawdor and Mrs. Smelts.
There is no place where a flirtation takes quicker root or matures more
rapidly than in ecclesiastical soil. From the moment Nance entered the
cathedral on that third Sunday, she and Mac were as acutely aware of each
other's every move as if they had been alone together in the garden of
Eden. At first she tried to avert her eyes, tried not to see his
insistent efforts to attract her attention, affected not to know that he
was singing to her, and watching her with impatient delight.
Then the surging notes of the organ died away, the bishop ascended the
pulpit, and the congregation settled down to hear the sermon. From
that time on Nance ceased to be discreet. There was glance for glance,
and smile for smile, and the innumerable wireless messages that youth
has exchanged since ardent eyes first sought each other across
forbidden spaces.
It was not until the end of the sermon that Nance awoke to the fact that
it was high time for Cinderella to be speeding on her way. Seizing a
moment when the choir's back was turned to the congregation, she slipped
noiselessly out of the cathedral and was fleeing down the steps when she
came face to face with Monte Pearce.
"Caught at last!" he exclaimed, planting himself firmly in her way.
"I've been playing watchdog for Mac for three Sundays. What are you
doing in town?"
"In town?"
"Yes; we thought you were on the road with the 'Follies.' When did you
get back?"
"You're seeking information, Mr.
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