“The Reverend Mr. Carter,” announced the maid.
Blair had a keen desire to scream, but he kept his eyes firmly on the rug until he had mastered himself. In the general movement that followed he had presence of mind enough to seize a chair next to Kathleen. He saw Falstaff's burly figure enter, habited as the conventional “black beetle” of the church, and in the sharpened state of his wits noticed that the unpractised curate had put on his clerical collar the wrong way round. He rejoiced in Carter's look of dismay on finding his fellow-Scorpion already on the battlefield.
“Mr. Carter,” said Mr. Kent, “this is Mr. Blair, of Trinity.”
The two shook hands gravely.
Blair determined to make use of his hard-won information to set Carter astray.
“I know Mr. Carter by reputation,” he said. “I have heard Joe speak of him in terms of great admiration.”
The curate looked worried, but tried to play safe.
“Oh, yes, Joe!” he said. “Splendid chap.”
Blair made haste to get back to the chair he coveted. He had no idea what mad schemes might lurk beneath Carter's episcopalian frock, and was determined to gain any headway he could.
“It seems funny your coming to Wolverhampton,” said Kathleen. “So few 'varsity men ever get here. But it's certainly a blessing for Dad. He'll talk antiquities with you as long as you like.”