“Do you think so?” said my uncle, his face falling. “My purpose in coming here was really most harmless, sir.”
Mr. Sant looked puzzled; then went on, with a dry smack of his lips:
“I am afraid that my predecessor lacked a little the apostolic fervour. He was old, and liked his ease, good man. Perhaps long association with the place had blunted his prejudices. I must not play the Pharisee to him, however. No doubt so circumstanced I should have failed no less to sow the seed. Heaven sent me at a fruitful moment: to Heaven be the credit and the glory! This little boy now—nephew Dicky? He knows his catechism?”
“Ah!” said Uncle Jenico, with a cunning look; “does he?”
“Chit-chit!” protested the clergyman. “I hope not altogether ignorant of it?”
He was decently shocked, and won an easy promise from my uncle that I should come up to him for an hour’s instruction every day. Then he rose to go.
“You’ll excuse me,” he said, bending his brows, “but I trust you are satisfied with your quarters?”
“Well, yes,” answered my uncle, hesitating; “but—an inn, you see. It’s a little more than we can—than we ought to—eh?”
Mr. Sant brightened immediately. We came to know afterwards that he strongly disapproved of these flashy Miss Flemings, and had once expressed in public some surprise that they had not been impounded as skittish animals not under proper control.
“There’s the widow Puddephatt, ripe and ready for visitors,” he said, “and perfectly reasonable, I am sure. May I give you her address? It’s No. 3, the Playstow.”