CHAPTER XIV
The Vicar of Maylands, the Reverend Ambrose Yule, was in his study writing his monthly contribution to the Northern Ecclesiastical Review. He was interested in his subject—"Our Sinful Sundays"—and his thoughts flowed smoothly on the topic of drink, frivolous talk and open kinematograph theatres. He wrote quickly and fluently in his neat small handwriting. A knock at the door interrupted him.
"Yes? What is it?" he asked somewhat impatiently.
"A lady to see you, sir," said Parrot, the comely maid.
"A lady? Who is it? I thought every one knew that I do not receive today."
"It is one of the foreign ladies staying with Mrs. Whitaker, sir."
"Oh, well. Show her into the drawing-room, and tell your mistress."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but——" a smile flickered over Parrot's mild face—"she asked specially for you. She said she wished to speak to 'Mr. the Clergyman' himself. First she said, 'Mr. the Cury' and then she said, 'Mr. the Clergyman.'"
"Well," sighed the vicar, "show her in." He placed a paper-weight on his neatly written sheets, rose and awaited his visitor standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire.