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"Who do you think it is, you mean."
"Very well, only the word is 'whom.'"
Mrs. Haverford ignored this.
"It's that Hayden girl," she said. "Toots. And Graham Spencer."
"Do you think that Delight - "
"She always has. For years."
Which was apparently quite clear to them both.
"If it had only been a nice girl," Mrs. Haverford protested,
plaintively. "But Toots! She's fast, I'm sure of it."
"My dear!"
"And that boy needs a decent girl, if anybody ever did. A shallow
mother, and a money-making father - all Toots Hay den wants is his
money. She's ages older than he is. I hear he is there every day
and all of Sundays."
The rector had precisely as much guile as a turtle dove, and long,
after Mrs. Haverford gave unmistakable evidences of slumber, he
lay with his arms above his head, and plotted. He had no conscience
whatever about it. He threw his scruples to the wind, and if it is
possible to follow the twists of a theological mind turned from the
straight and narrow way into the maze of conspiracy, his thoughts
ran something like this:
"She is Delight.


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