"To—to our daily life—our routine? Call it humdrum, if you will—"
"My good friend, the Millennium!"
"I know, I know. Still, at my age a man has formed habits. Of course"—the Major pulled himself together—"if it's a question of Satan's being bound for a thousand years, on general grounds one can only approve. Yes, decidedly, on principle one welcomes it. Nevertheless, coming so suddenly—"
The Vicar tapped his Testament again. "It has been here all the time."
"Yes, yes," the Major sighed impatiently. "Still, it's upsetting, you'll admit."
"The end of the world!" Miss Marty gripped her apron, as if to cast it over her head.
"The Millennium, Miss Marty, is not the end of the world."
"Oh, isn't it?"
"It merely means that Satan will be bound for a thousand years to come."
"If that's all"—Miss Marty walked to the bell-rope—"there's no harm in ringing for Scipio to bring in the omelet."