“He’s going to talk,” Roger groaned to himself again. “He wants to talk. He’s aching to talk—I know he is! My pipe to the Coliseum he’s going to talk!”
Roger’s deduction was not amiss. It was only too plain that the little old clergyman had every intention of talking. He had, to be accurate, on seeing Roger’s back in the distance, come nearly a quarter-of-a-mile out of his way for the express purpose of talking. He began to talk.
“I don’t remember seeing you in our little village. Perhaps you have walked over from Sandsea?”
“No,” said Roger patiently. “I’m staying in Ludmouth.”
“Ah! At Mrs. Jameson’s, no doubt? I did hear that she was expecting a visitor.”
“No, at the Crown.”
“Oh! Oh, dear me! Surely I am not talking to Mr. Roger Sheringham, am I?” twittered the little clergyman.
“That is my name, sir, yes,” Roger admitted, with a mental side-note upon village gossip, its velocity and the surprising quarters it reaches.
“My dear sir!” The little parson’s beam grew brighter than ever. “You must permit me to shake hands with you. No, really you must! This is indeed a gratifying moment. I have read all your books, every one; and I cannot tell you how I enjoyed them. Well, fancy, now!”
Roger was never in the least embarrassed by this kind of encounter. He shook hands with his admirer with the greatest heartiness.