“I thank you, sir,” said Dan. “I quite understand.”
He went home moodily reflecting. Nobody else in the village minded his misdeeds, they did not care a button, and none condemned him. On the contrary, indeed. But the blow had fallen, there was nothing that he could now do, the shock of it had been anticipated, but it was severe. And the pang would last, for he was deprived of his chief opportunity for singing, that art in which he excelled, in that perfect quiet setting he so loved. Rancour grew upon him, and on Saturday he had a roaring audacious evening at “The White Hart” where, to the tune of “The British Grenadiers,” he sung a doggerel:
Our parson loves his motor car
His garden and his mansion,
And he loves his beef for I’ve remarked
His belly’s brave expansion;
He loves all mortal mundane things
As he loved his beer at college,
And so he loves his housemaid (not
With Mrs. parson’s knowledge.)