“No.”
“Then I don’t think you must tell me what the subject is.”
Mrs. Alington looked more troubled, and more like Ambrose. “But I do not think I agree,” she said. “What was your phrase two Sundays ago about the final test of what we should do in difficulties, how we should put it to the lodestone of conscience.”
“No, dear, touchstone.”
“Touchstone, yes. Well, I have put it to the touchstone of conscience, and my conscience tells me that I ought to consult you about it. I don’t think it is possible for the Literific to assemble and hear Mrs. Grainger’s paper.”
Canon Alington looked up in surprise, and his wife instantly, and correctly, interpreted the look.
“Yes, I can’t call her Edith on this point,” she said. “Personally, I should not think of going to hear it, nor, I am sure, would you. Now, the notices must go out on Monday, and if once they go out I don’t see where it will all end. They mustn’t go out—all Mannington mustn’t know the subject on which Mrs. Grainger proposes to read to us. Besides, no discussion could be possible on the subject, and discussion is one of the main objects of our meetings, is it not?”
Canon Alington rose, and in silence lit a pipe of half-awakened bird’s-eye.
“This is very serious,” he said. “I take it for granted you are not overestimating the unseaworthiness of this paper. For such a thing has never happened before, that we should find a member of our Literific proposing to read on a subject of which we should not like our wives and daughters to listen to.”
“Nor would your wife like her husband to listen to it,” said Agnes with sudden energy.