"Lady Conybeare has started?" he inquired of Jack.
"Yes; she has gone to church. She went nearly half an hour ago."
Mr. Alington paused a moment.
"I had meant to go with her," he said. "I had no idea it was so late."
"There is the punt here," said Jack. "You can go now if you like. I had no idea you meant to."
"I thought everyone went to church on Sunday morning in England when they were in the country," he said. "But I would sooner not go at all than arrive in the middle of the prayer of St. Chrysostom."
"And I would sooner arrive in the middle of the prayer of St. Chrysostom than at the beginning of it," remarked Jack.
A slight look of pain crossed Mr. Alington's face, as if he had a twinge of neuralgia; but he made no further comment on Jack's levity. He leaned his tune hymn-book carefully against the bottom of his basket-chair, after feeling that the lawn was dry, and lit a cigarette.
"An exquisite morning," he said, after a moment's reflection. "The hills look as if they had been painted with cream for a medium, an effect so rare out of England."
Lord Conybeare did not reply immediately, for he had not waited all this time in the garden for Alington to hear him talk about cream. Then he went straight to the point: