All unconscious of her presence, he chants and sings.

She grins when he is most musically fervid, and--yes, Mr.Datchery sees her do it!--shakes her fist at him behind the pillar's friendly shelter.
Mr.Datchery looks again, to convince himself.

Yes, again! As ugly and withered as one of the fantastic carvings on the under brackets of the stall seats, as malignant as the Evil One, as hard as the big brass eagle holding the sacred books upon his wings (and, according to the sculptor's representation of his ferocious attributes, not at all converted by them), she hugs herself in her lean arms, and then shakes both fists at the leader of the Choir.
And at that moment, outside the grated door of the Choir, having eluded the vigilance of Mr.Tope by shifty resources in which he is an adept, Deputy peeps, sharp-eyed, through the bars, and stares astounded from the threatener to the threatened.
The service comes to an end, and the servitors disperse to breakfast.
Mr.Datchery accosts his last new acquaintance outside, when the Choir (as much in a hurry to get their bedgowns off, as they were but now to get them on) have scuffled away.
'Well, mistress.

Good morning.

You have seen him ?' '_I've_ seen him, deary; _I've_ seen him!' 'And you know him ?' 'Know him! Better far than all the Reverend Parsons put together know him.' Mrs.Tope's care has spread a very neat, clean breakfast ready for her lodger.