"What do you say yourself, sir?" said Jimmy.
The vicar said nothing for a while. He may have been trying to make up his mind what he ought to say, or it may have been simply that his wife's clasp on his neck was so tight as to make speech impossible.
Jimmy, advocatus diaboli in the matter, put the case for wrong-doing as strongly as he could. The reputations of many eminent men were threatened by a scandal from the defilement of which none of them would ever be able to get wholly clear. The good name of the Church was in peril. The prospects of a great party in the State were in jeopardy. Every man, institution or party has enemies. The enemies of religion, atheists and mockers, would fasten on the bishop and through him would injure the Church and Christianity itself. The enemies of the State, socialists and communists, would swarm round Sir Evelyn and work incalculable mischief. The scandal would give them the opportunity they wanted. He pleaded earnestly. Beth backed his appeal; but Mrs. Eames's eyes still flashed righteous indignation and her fist was still tightly clenched.
"Agatha, dear, do let me speak," said the vicar in a hoarse whisper.
Mrs. Eames slightly relaxed her hold on his neck.
"You've often said," the vicar began addressing his wife, "You've often said that I would be a better man if——"
"You couldn't be better, Timothy darling. I've always said that."
"——that I would be a better man if only I would do something wrong."
"Timothy, dearest one, I never said that."
"You did, Aunt Agatha," said Beth. "I've heard you often."