"So they tell me."
"He was always so particular in not letting Mary ride over a single fence. He would hardly let her go to a meet on horseback."
"Many fathers do what they won't let their daughters do. The Dean has been always giving signs that he would like to break out a little."
"Can they do anything to him?"
"Oh dear no;—not if he was to hunt a pack of hounds himself, as far as I know."
"But I suppose it's wrong, Canon," said the clerical wife.
"Yes; I think it's wrong because it will scandalise. Everything that gives offence is wrong, unless it be something that is on other grounds expedient. If it be true we shall hear about it a good deal here, and it will not contribute to brotherly love and friendship among us clergymen."
There was another canon at Brotherton, one Dr. Pountner, a red-faced man, very fond of his dinner, a man of infinite pluck, and much attached to the Cathedral, towards the reparation of which he had contributed liberally. And, having an ear for music, he had done much to raise the character of the choir. Though Dr. Pountner's sermons were supposed to be the worst ever heard from the pulpit of the Cathedral, he was, on account of the above good deeds, the most popular clergyman in the city. "So I'm told you've been distinguishing yourself, Mr. Dean," said the Doctor, meeting our friend in the close.
"Have I done so lately, more than is usual with me?" asked the Dean, who had not hitherto heard of the rumour of his performances.
"I am told that you were so much ahead the other day in the hunting field, that you were unable to give assistance to the poor lady who broke her arm."