Augustine glanced brightly up from the pile of letters which he was opening.
'Cheerio, Bish. How's the lumbago today?'
'I find the pain sensibly diminished, thank you, Mulliner—in fact, almost non-existent. This pleasant weather seems to do me good. For lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. Song of Solomon ii, 11, 12.'
'Good work,' said Augustine. 'Well, there's nothing much of interest in these letters so far. The Vicar of St Beowulf's in the West wants to know, How about incense?'
'Tell him he mustn't.'
'Right ho.'
The bishop stroked his chin uneasily. He seemed to be nerving himself for some unpleasant task.
'Mulliner,' he said.
'Hullo?'
'Your mention of the word "vicar" provides a cue, which I must not ignore, for alluding to a matter which you and I had under advisement yesterday—the matter of the vacant living of Steeple Mummery.'