“But I shall not have to teach your little boy theology.”
“Certainly not, sir. That department belongs to his mother and I. Unworthy vessels, sir; mere earthen vessels; but filled with the grace of God, I hope, sir.”
The grocer parted his hands, which he had been rubbing together during this conversation, and lifted them upwards from the wrists, like the fins of a seal; then, dropping them, fell to rubbing them again.
“I hope so. Well—you know the best way will be for me—not knowing your opinions—to avoid everything of a religious kind.”
“Ah! but it should be line upon line, you know; here a little, and there a little, sir. As the bow is bent, you know—the—hoop is made, you know, sir.”
Here Mr. Appleditch stepped to the door suddenly, and peeped out, as if he feared he was wanted; but presently returning, he continued:
“But time’s a precious gift, sir, and we must not waste it. So, if you’ll do us the honour, sir, to dine with us next Lord’s day—we may call it a work of necessity, you know—you will see the little Samuel, and—and—Mrs. Appleditch.”
“I shall be very happy. What is your address, Mr. Appleditch?”
“You had better come to Salem Chapel, Dervish town, and we can go home together. Service commences at eleven. Mrs. Appleditch will be glad to see you. Ask for Mr. Appleditch’s pew. Goo-ood morning, sir.”
Hugh took his leave, half inclined to send an excuse before the day arrived, and decline the connection. But his principle was, to take whatever offered, and thus make way for the next thing. Besides, he thus avoided the responsibility of choice, from which he always shrunk.