“Calling? Yes. Sings in the choir.”
“In the spire?”
“Choir.”
“What’s that?”
Mr. Datchery rises from his papers, and comes to his doorstep. “Do you know what a cathedral is?” he asks, jocosely.
The woman nods.
“What is it?”
She looks puzzled, casting about in her mind to find a definition, when it occurs to her that it is easier to point out the substantial object itself, massive against the dark-blue sky and the early stars.
“That’s the answer. Go in there at seven to-morrow morning, and you may see Mr. John Jasper, and hear him too.”
“Thank ye! Thank ye!”