"Speaking for myself—" began Simpson.
"Oh, why not?"
"I should like to see a church where Katharine of Aragon or somebody was buried."
"Samuel's morbid craving for sensation—"
"Wait till we get back to London, and I'll take you to Madame
Tussaud's, Mr Simpson."
"Well, I think he's quite right," said Dahlia. "There is an old
Norman church, I believe, and we ought to go and see it. The
Philistines needn't come in if they don't want to."
"Philistines!" I said indignantly. "Well, I'm—"
"Agagged," suggested Archie. "Oh no, he was an Amalekite."
"You've lived in the same country as this famous old Norman church for years and years and years, and you care so little about it that you've never been to see it and aren't sure whether it was Katharine of Aragon or Alice-for-short who was buried here, and now that you HAVE come across it by accident you want to drive up to it in a brand-new 1910 motor-car, with Simpson in his 1910 gent.'s fancy vest knocking out the ashes of his pipe against the lych-gate as he goes in. … And that's what it is to be one of the elect!"
"Little Chagford's noted back-chat comedians," commented Archie.
"Your turn, Dahlia."