‘You’d a deal sooner not ha’ throwed it down at all, I should think,’ responded the unsympathetic cook, to whom John did not make love. ‘Who d’you think’s to mek gravy anuff, if you’re to baste people’s gownds wi’ it?’
‘Well,’ suggested John, humbly, ‘you should wet the bottom of the duree a bit, to hold it from slippin’.’
‘Wet your granny!’ returned the cook; a retort which she probably regarded in the light of a reductio ad absurdum, and which in fact reduced John to silence.
Later on in the evening, while John was removing the tea things from the drawing-room, and brushing the crumbs from the table-cloth with an accompanying hiss, such as he was wont to encourage himself with in rubbing down Mr. Bridmain’s horse, the Rev. Amos Barton drew from his pocket a thin green-covered pamphlet, and, presenting it to the Countess, said,—‘You were pleased, I think, with my sermon on Christmas Day. It has been printed in “The Pulpit,” and I thought you might like a copy.’
‘That indeed I shall. I shall quite value the opportunity of reading that sermon. There was such depth in it!—such argument! It was not a sermon to be heard only once. I am delighted that it should become generally known, as it will be now it is printed in “The Pulpit.”’
‘Yes,’ said Milly, innocently, ‘I was so pleased with the editor’s letter.’ And she drew out her little pocket-book, where she carefully treasured the editorial autograph, while Mr. Barton laughed and blushed, and said, ‘Nonsense, Milly!’
‘You see,’ she said, giving the letter to the Countess, ‘I am very proud of the praise my husband gets.’
The sermon in question, by the by, was an extremely argumentative one on the Incarnation; which, as it was preached to a congregation not one of whom had any doubt of that doctrine, and to whom the Socinians therein confuted were as unknown as the Arimaspians, was exceedingly well adapted to trouble and confuse the Sheppertonian mind.
‘Ah,’ said the Countess, returning the editor’s letter, ‘he may well say he will be glad of other sermons from the same source. But I would rather you should publish your sermons in an independent volume, Mr. Barton; it would be so desirable to have them in that shape. For instance, I could send a copy to the Dean of Radborough. And there is Lord Blarney, whom I knew before he was chancellor. I was a special favourite of his, and you can’t think what sweet things he used to say to me. I shall not resist the temptation to write to him one of these days sans façon, and tell him how he ought to dispose of the next vacant living in his gift.’
Whether Jet the spaniel, being a much more knowing dog than was suspected, wished to express his disapproval of the Countess’s last speech, as not accordant with his ideas of wisdom and veracity, I cannot say; but at this moment he jumped off her lap, and, turning his back upon her, placed one paw on the fender, and held the other up to warm, as if affecting to abstract himself from the current of conversation.