Next day Alf, greatly daring, stopped the evangelist in the street.
"Beg pardon, sir," he began diffidently. "About what you was saying last night about them Proper Prefaces..."
The curate amplified his explanation.
Alf drank in the milk of the Word, nodding his head.
"Ah, I never thought of that!" he said.
"Look here!" said the curate with sudden warmth. "If you're interested in those sort of things..."
The naughty devil who possessed Alf bobbed out and almost undid him.
"What!—Proper Prefaces!" he said, and added hastily—"and the things appertaining to em!—religion and that."
"That's what I mean," said the curate. "Come round to my rooms on Friday. Some of us meet there once a week. Jolly fellows. Come and smoke a pipe and chat!"
The Reverend Spink was deeply tainted with the hearty bon-camarade method which the Bishop of Fulham had recently introduced into the Church to enable it to float on the flowing democratic tide.