'Ride over to-morrow morning, bishop,' suggested his wife.
'Sunday morning, my dear!'
'Well, papa!' said Lucy, smiling, 'you are not a strict Sabbatarian, you know.'
'I am not so good as I ought to be, my dear,' said Dr Pendle, playfully pinching her pretty ear. 'Well! well! I must see George. I'll go to-morrow morning at eight o'clock. You'll send a telegram to Mr Vasser to that effect, if you please, Mr Cargrim. Say that I regret not being able to come to-night.'
'Certainly, my lord. In any case, I am going in to Beorminster this evening.'
'You are usually more stay-at-home, Mr Cargrim. Thank you, Lucy, I will take another cup of tea.'
'I do not care for going out at night as a rule, my lord, observed the chaplain, in his most sanctimonious tone, 'but duty calls me into Beorminster. I am desirous of comforting poor sick Mrs Mosk at The Derby Winner.'
'Oh, that is Gabriel's pet invalid,' cried Lucy, peering into the teapot; 'he says Mrs Mosk is a very good woman.'
'Let us hope so,' observed the bishop, stirring his new cup of tea. 'I do not wish to be uncharitable, my dear, but if Mrs Pansey is to be believed, that public-house is not conducted so carefully as it should be.'
'But is Mrs Pansey to be believed, bishop?' asked his wife, smiling.