"Because," he said, "I have been doing things lately that sometimes seem inopportune,—that concert for example, and—"
"They are all right," I said, "but lente! lente!!"
"And that little interview with the chapel woman,—I felt I could have done better—?"
"It is all right," I repeated, "but lente! lente!!"
"And I think we must stop those little children from saying the Rosary—"
This time I looked at him quite steadily. He was imperturbable and sphinx-like.
"Good evening," I said. "Come up after dinner and let us have a chat about that line in the 'Odes' we were speaking about."
I went homewards slowly, and, as I went, the thought would obtrude itself, how far I had recovered my lost authority, and succeeded in satisfying that insatiable monster called Public Opinion. For my curate had been reading for me a story by some American author, in which the narrative ended in a problem whether a lady or a tiger would emerge from a cage under certain circumstances; and hence, a conundrum was puzzling the world,—the tiger or the lady, which? And my conundrum was, Had I lectured my curate, or had my curate lectured me? I am trying to solve the problem to this day.