“Really!” said Mr. Kent, “that is most interesting. I had noticed his modification of the customary dress. In what other ways, Mr. Carter, would you amend the ritual?”
The unfortunate curate was caught.
“Er—hum—well—that is, the Bishop and I both think that the service is too long,” he faltered. “I am in favour of omitting the sermon.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Mr. Kent. “It is most refreshing to hear a high churchman make such a confession. And what else do you propose?”
“Why—ah—hum—it has always seemed to me that the—thirty-nine articles might—well—be somewhat condensed.”
“Bravo indeed, though I fear the Bishop would balk at that,” said his host.
The maid, appearing in the dining-room again, whispered to Mrs. Kent.
“Philip,” said the latter, “that gas-man is here again, and says he must see the meter. He claims that there is a dangerous leak which should be fixed at once. Perhaps I had better go down to the cellar with him. Your rheumatism—”
“My dear Mrs. Kent,” cried the curate, seeing his chance; “do nothing of the sort. It is the privilege of my cloth to take precedence when there is danger of any kind. If any one should be overcome by fumes, the consolations of the church may be needed.” And without waiting for another word, he leaped up and ran from the room.
Blair fidgeted in his chair, seeing himself outwitted, but there was nothing he could do.