Davis flushed scarlet. The reflection on his geography wounded him, and he winced under it.
“Are you quite clear that you understand my instructions?” said he, testily.
“I wish I was as sure of a deanery,” said Paul, smacking his lips over the last glass.
“You can scarcely wish over-well to the Church, when you desire to be one of its dignitaries,” said Davis, with a sarcastic grin.
“Why so, my worthy friend? There is a wise Scotch adage says, 'It taks a' kind of folk to mak a warld;' and so, various orders of men, with gifts widely differing, if not discrepant, are advantageously assembled into what we call corporations.”
“Nonsense,—bosh!” said Grog, impatiently. “If you have no better command of common-sense where you are going, I have made a precious bad choice of an agent.”
“See how men misconstrue their own natures!” exclaimed Classon, with a sort of fervor. “If any one had asked me what gift I laid especial claim to possess, I protest I should have said 'common-sense;' a little more common-sense than any one else I ever met.”
“You are modest too.”
“Becomingly so, I hope and believe.”
“Have you any other remarkable traits that you might desire to record?”