She could have worshipped Doctor Joyce at that moment.
"Mr.Blyth!" exclaimed Mrs.Joyce, sharply, before another word could be spoken--"excuse me, Mr.Blyth; but really--" Valentine was trying to pour out a glass of sherry for Mrs.Peckover.
His admiration of the doctor's last speech, and his extreme anxiety to reassure the clown's wife, must have interfered with his precision of eye and hand; for one-half of the wine, as he held the decanter, was dropping into the glass, and the other half was dribbling into a little river on the cloth.

Mrs.Joyce thought of the walnut-wood table underneath, and felt half distracted as she spoke.

Mrs.Peckover, delighted to be of some use, forgot her company manners in an instant, pulled out her red cotton pocket-handkerchief and darted at the spilt sherry.

But the rector was even quicker with his napkin.

Mrs.Peckover's cheeks turned the color of her handkerchief as she put it back in her pocket, and sat down again.
"Much obliged--no harm done--much obliged, ma'am," said Doctor Joyce.
"Now, Valentine, if you don't leave off apologizing, and sit down directly in that arm-chair against the wall, I shall take Mrs.Peckover into my study, and hear everything she has to say, at a private interview.