“Hogarth—! My God—!”
A trembling seized the priest's leathery left cheek, he at that instant seeing a vision of the world—Andalusian wines, hued ices, the opera-house, and great greyhounds of the sea, and a snuff which his gross nose loved at Gorey.
“Hogarth, you are not mocking me?” chattered the priest's jaws, hurrying like a jarred spring.
“I am quite serious. You will have to run for it though”.
“Run! I am not such a young man! Have pity Hogarth”.
“Bah! Be a man”.
The priest approached his mouth to Hogarth's ear: “I should die of fright! My heart—”
“What would it matter? I thought you had more beans”.
“But have you—a plan?”
“Yes. You must run to the copse—”