"My dear Beth," he shouted, for it is necessary to shout if conversation is to be carried on through a stained glass window. "I didn't expect to meet you here, but I'm very glad, very glad indeed to see you. I'll come out to you and then we can both go down to the vicarage for tea. You're sure to want tea. I know I do. To tell you the truth I forgot to bring up any sandwiches to-day, so I've had no lunch."
He rubbed a little of the clay off his hands, laid the floor boards of the pew over the hole and replaced the carpet. Then he unlocked the south door of the church and greeted Beth. She introduced Jimmy. The Vicar looked first at one and then at the other with a whimsical little smile.
"You young people have caught me," he said. "But I hope——it's rather a humiliating request to make but I hope that you won't find it necessary to tell anyone what I was doing."
"As if we would, Uncle Timothy," said Beth. "Especially Aunt Agatha."
"Yes, yes, especially your aunt. Of course I'm going to tell her all about it in the end. But the fact is—— You know, my dear Beth, how your aunt is always telling me that I ought to do something for the parish."
"Poor Uncle Timothy!" said Beth.
"She's quite right," said Mr. Eames mildly. "I've always admitted that she's quite right. A man ought not to live without doing something."
"That's exactly what Beth says to me," said Jimmy, "and she's quite right, too."
"My difficulty," said Mr. Eames, "was to discover something which I could do, and at the same time something that would please your aunt. Now I think I've found the exact thing."
"Uncle Timothy," said Beth, "I don't believe Aunt Agatha is as bad as that. I know she's really fond of you. She won't be pleased. She really won't. She'll be very sorry, heartbroken, when you tell her that you've dug your grave."