"Didn't any fellow shake you by the hand even, and say: Prosit! prosit!! prosit!!!"
"I'm afraid not," he said gloomily.
"That's bad. Nor even, macte virtute esto, Titus Manlius?"
"No," he said. "There was no indication of sympathy whatsoever."
"Didn't any fellow drop into the vernacular, and say: 'Put the hand there. Sure I never doubted you,' and wring your hand as if he wanted to dislocate it?"
"No, no, no! There was simply dead silence."
"And perhaps they looked at you over their shoulders, and whispered together, as they put their surplices into their bags, and stared at you as if you were a sea-monster?"
"Something that way, indeed," said my poor curate.
"Did the bishop make any remark?"
"Yes. The bishop came over and said he was very grateful, indeed, for that beautiful sermon. But that, of course, was purely conventional."