“No, thank you.”
“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Braddock apologetically, “I don’t know where they keep the whisky.”
“I never touch spirits.”
Conversation languished. Willoughby Braddock began to find his companion a little damping. Not matey. Seemed to be brooding on something, or Mr. Braddock was very much mistaken.
“You’re a clergyman, aren’t you, and all that?” he said, after a pause of some moments.
“I am. My name is the Rev. Aubrey Jerningham. I have just taken up my duties as vicar of this parish.”
“Where every prospect pleases,” said the Rev. Aubrey, “and only man is vile.”
Silence fell once more. Mr. Braddock searched in his mind for genial chatter, and found that he was rather short on clerical small talk.
He thought for a moment of asking his visitor why it was that bishops wore those rummy bootlace-looking things on their hats—a problem that had always perplexed him; but decided that the other might take offence at being urged to give away professional secrets.