“You told him!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, I didn’t say who it was—I mean what it was I thought of doing—I mean the temptation—that is, the possibility. And he said it was very kind of me to think of it; but I mustn’t do anything, and he advised me to read a book he gave me, and—and I mustn’t think of it, really, Mr Beveridge.”
To himself Mr Beveridge repeated under his breath, “Archbishops, bishops, deacons, curates, fast in Lent, and an anthem after the Creed. I think I remember enough to pass.”
Then he assumed a very serious face, and said aloud, “Your scruples do your heart credit. They have given me an insight into your deep and sweet character, which emboldens me to make a confession.”
He stopped skating, folded his arms, and continued unblushingly, “I was educated for the Church, but the prejudices of my parents, the immature scepticism of youth, and some uncertainty about obtaining my archbishopric, induced me in an unfortunate moment, which I never ceased to bitterly regret, to quit my orders.”
“You are in orders?” she exclaimed.
“I was in several. I cancelled them, and entered the Navy instead.”
“The Navy?” she asked, excusably bewildered by these rapid changes of occupation.
“For five years I was never ashore.”
“But,” she hesitated—“but you said you were in the Army.”