"I have called, Mrs. Tweedie," he began, after declining to be seated, "on a matter of grave importance to our church and myself. Perhaps it will not be necessary for me to—"
"I understand, Mr. Flint," she said, with proper gravity.
"Do you fully realize the false position in which our church has been placed?" asked the parson, impressively.
"I do, and sincerely regret the unfortunate circumstance."
"Unfortunate," he repeated, as though he did not think the word adequate. "Mrs. Tweedie, our church has been defiled, desecrated, by a wanton, worthless wretch, and I desire to know whether your club, or any member of it, is responsible, even in the slightest degree, for the outrage."
"Not to my knowledge," replied Mrs. Tweedie—but she had guessed, with Mrs. Stout's assistance.
"I am profoundly relieved to hear you say so," said Mr. Flint, as he started toward the door. "Of course, you know my convictions regarding the stage?" Mrs. Tweedie bowed affirmatively. "I have refrained from expressing myself publicly," he continued, as he stopped with his hand on the door-knob, "but since the occurrence of yesterday, I feel that it is my duty to announce from the pulpit next Sunday my position in regard to the matter. Good afternoon."
As Mrs. Tweedie closed the door on the parson she groaned: "More advertising."