"Every minute is filled," said Archibald heavily. "Overworked? I can stand a lot of work."
"He would be miserable without it—and bored," said Betty. "He won't even come to concerts with me now."
"It's the work that tells, nowadays, my dear. Preaching gives a man a start, but it's the steady strain of parochial organisation which brings one to the top of the hill."
"You are neglecting your sermons," said Betty. "For several Sundays they have struck me as being—how shall I put it—uninspired. They hold one's attention, yes, but they do not grip; they touch, but they do not penetrate."
Archibald nodded, frowning and crumbling the bread beside his plate.
"The Duchess," he said, "stopped me this morning after church to tell me that she liked the treatment of my text immensely."
"Oh—the Duchess!" exclaimed Betty.
"I've so much on my mind," said Archibald, turning to Mark. He rose, looking at his watch. "I must go now to hear a man sing in Upper Tooting. The cigars are in my room."
He went out. As the door shut behind him, Betty turned a contrite face to Mark's.
"I hit him when he was down. What a beast I am!"