"He was! If he were here, I'd say it to his face. The congregation sicked you after him. And now he's gone and you'll get nothing more. And they'll call you slow—slow and pokey! You'll see! To-morrow you'll wake up!"
"My dear!" expostulated her husband once more.
But Mrs. Batholommey paid no attention to his words or to the beseeching look that accompanied them. She waved an arm dramatically.
"Here's a man the rector spent half his time with—and for what? A watch fob!"
The ineffable scorn with which she pronounced these last words caused Mr. Batholommey to hang his head.
"You'll see!" she went on. "This will be the end of you! It's not what you preach that counts nowadays. It's what you coax out of the rich parishioners' pockets."
"Mrs. Batholommey!" thundered the clergyman, taking a step forward; but he might as well have tried to stem the ocean.
"The church needs funds to-day. Religion doesn't stand where it did, when a college professor is saying that—that—"—(here her voice broke)—"the Star of Bethlehem was only a comet."
The end of the sentence resolved itself into a veritable wail and she sat down quickly and subsided into her handkerchief.
"My dear!" reiterated the helpless husband.