"He's had plenty of air," retorted Mrs. Lewknor with the curt brutality that distinguished her on rare occasions. "What he wants is something more solid than he gets from the pulpit."
The Archdeacon eyed her de-haut-en-bas. From his undergraduate days he had believed implicitly in the power of his eye to master and demoralize his enemies and those of his Church, and the Lady Augusta Willcocks had loyally fostered his belief.
Now, however, his antagonist refused to be demoralized.
He saw that she was a lady, suspected that she might be "somebody," and with that fine flair for the things of this world which characterize the successful of his profession, he retired on gaitered legs with a somewhat theatrical dignity.
Ernie was helped to his feet.
A car, coming slowly down the hill, ground to a halt.
Mr. Trupp leaned out and took in the scene.
"Ernie, get up alongside your brother, will you?" he said. "Mrs. Lewknor!"
The car rolled on its way with its two new occupants.
"He don't want me," muttered Mr. Trupp in his companion's ear. "He wants my cook."