"Please don't quibble. There's the same dual personality in you that there is in me talking among friends and preaching in this pulpit. Aren't you preparing me now—as a friend—for what you might have to say—as a vestryman?"
"If you insist—yes," the Judge admitted, rather testily. It nettled him to be put on the defensive, his subtleness openly contemned.
"In other words," Imrie rose from his chair and walked over to the window, where he paused for a moment. "In other words, you bear unofficial orders."
"Not orders."
"Advice then—advice for me to preach what the people want—and let what they need go hang?"
"Arnold—my dear boy," cried the Judge pacifically, following him to the window. But Imrie edged away.
"As the Spanish poet put it, 'Since the public pay 'tis just, methinks, we by their compass steer, and write the nonsense that they love to hear';" he murmured gently.
"Really, I—" the Judge was at a loss for words. He had anticipated no such reception as this.
Imrie's voice changed and his lips narrowed.
"You may tell the—er—powerful laymen—Judge Wolcott, that I take my orders in these matters from my conscience, not from them."