Mr Bunker suspected that he had made a slip in his biblical reminiscences, but he continued to smile imperturbably, and inquired with a perfect air of surprise, “Haven’t you read the novel I referred to?”
Mr Duggs appeared a little relieved, but he answered blankly enough, “I—ah—have not. What is the book you refer to?”
“Oh, don’t you know? To tell the truth, I forget the title. It’s by a somewhat well-known lady writer of religious fiction. A Miss—her name escapes me at this moment.”
In fact, as Mr Bunker had no idea how long his friend [pg 195] might be dwelling in the apartment immediately above him, he thought it more prudent to make no statement that could possibly be checked.
“I am no great admirer of religious fiction of any kind,” replied Mr Duggs, “particularly that written by emotional females.”
“No,” said Mr Bunker, pleasantly; “I should imagine your own doctrines were not apt to err on the sentimental side.”
“I am not aware that I have said anything to you about my—doctrines, as you call them, Mr Butler.”
“Still, don’t you think one can generally tell a man’s creed from his coat, and his sympathies from the way he cocks his hat?”
“I think,” replied Mr Duggs, “that our ideas of our vocation are somewhat different.”
“Mine is, I admit,” said Mr Bunker, who had come to the conclusion that the strain of playing his part was really too great, and was now being happily carried along by his tongue.