“We’re raver finking,” he confided to Michael over a high-heaped plate, “of starting Benediction, vis year.”
“That will be wonderful,” said Michael politely.
“Yes, it ought to annoy ver poor old Bishop raver.”
The walrus-like man chuckled and bent over his food with a relish stimulated by such a prospect. After supper the two curates carried off their favorites upstairs to their own rooms; and as Chator, Stewart, and Michael were determined to spend the evening together, the Vicar was left with rather more people than usual to smoke his cigarettes.
“I envy you people,” said Michael, as the three of them sank down into deep wicker chairs. “I envy this power you have to bring Oxford—or Cambridge—into London. For it is the same spirit in terms of action, isn’t it? And you’re free from the thought which must often worry dons that perhaps they are having a very good time without doing very much to deserve it.”
“We work hard in this parish,” spluttered Chator. “Oh, rather. Very hard.”
“That’s what I say. You have the true peace that thrives on activity,” said Michael. “But at the same time, what I’m rather anxious to know is how nearly you touch the real sinners.”
Stewart and Chator looked at one another across his chair.
“How much do we, brother?” asked Stewart.
“No, really,” protested Michael. “My dear Nigel, I can’t have you being so affected. Brother! You must give up being archaic now that you’re a pale young curate.”