Lent wore at last to an end, and the festivities which follow Easter came in with all their usual gayety. One evening, about a week before the election, a musicale was given at the house of Mrs. Gore. Mr. and Mrs. Strathmore were present, the tall figure of the former being conspicuous in the crowd which after the music surged toward the supper-room and later eddied through the parlors. Fred Rangely came upon the clergyman at a moment when he had detached himself from the admiring women who usually surrounded him, and taken refuge in the shadow of a deep window.
"Good-evening, Mr. Strathmore," Rangely said. "Are you making a retreat? I thought Lent was the time for that."
The other smiled with that kindly benevolence which was characteristic.
"Ah, Mr. Rangely," he responded, extending his hand. "I am glad to see you. Will you share my retirement?"
"Thank you," Rangely answered, stepping into the recess. "A retreat is especially grateful to a journalist. We get so tired that even a moment of respite is welcome."
Mr. Strathmore smiled more genially than ever.
"Yes; you journalists are expected to know everything, and it must be wearing to have to learn all that there is to know."
"Oh, it's easy enough to learn instead how to appear to know."
The clergyman regarded him with a quizzical look.
"Is that the way it is done? I've often wondered at the infallibility of your guild."