“Well,” went on Evans unblushingly (how valuable are men of this kind!), “I am a great friend, especially of dear old Lady Repton—through my mother,” he added in an explanatory tone, “but I won’t go into that. The point is this: the whole family are really dreadfully concerned.”
“I know, I know,” said the editor of the Capon, still most sympathetic, and most grave.
“Well,” said Evans with affected ill-ease, “the fact is we don’t want anything said about it at all—nothing. That’s the simplest way, after all. It’s a great trouble. You really would do me a personal service, and they would be so grateful.”
“By all means,” said the editor of the Capon. He turned to a speaking-tube upon his right and was about to pull out the whistle, when a violent blast blew that instrument at the end of its chain into his face. The editor expressed disgust, and when this expression was over, asked for the statement. The statement was brought.
“They’re waiting for the machine, sir.”
The editor ran his blue pencil down the list, made a little X against one item, and said: “Bring me a proof of that, will you?”
A slip of proof came up: it was to the effect that Sir Charles Repton was to speak at the Wycliffite Congress and from his candid and vigorous action of the day before, both in the House and outside it, it was hoped that his address would act as a clarion call in the present crisis of religion. (“And it would!” thought Edward, all goose-flesh at the thought).
“There’s no harm in that,” he said. Then with sudden thought: “What’s the leader about?”
“The Concessions,” said the editor of the Capon, smiling.
“Well,” said Evans, “we don’t agree about that, do we?” And he smiled back.