‘How is it going?’ asked Merton anxiously.
‘Cambridge four wickets down for 115, but—’ and the young man stared, ‘it must be, it is Pussy Merton!’
‘And you, Clancy Minor, why are you not converting the Heathen Chinee? You deserve a death of torture.’
‘Goodness! How do you know that?’ asked Clancy.
‘I know many things,’ answered Merton. ‘I am not sure which of you is Mr. Bathe.’
Clancy presented Mr. Bathe, a florid young evangelist, who blushed.
‘Armenia is still suffering, Mr. Bathe; and Mr. Brooke,’ said Merton, detecting him by the Method of Residues, ‘the oven is still hot in the New Hebrides. What have you got to say for yourselves?’
The curates shifted nervously on their chairs.
‘We see, Merton,’ said Clancy, ‘that you know a good deal which we did not know ourselves till lately. In fact, we did not know each other till the Church Congress at Leamington. Then the other men came to tea at my rooms, and saw—’
‘A portrait of a lady; each of you possessed a similar portrait,’ said Merton.