"And do you think his saintly curate has found it out?"
"Do you think that would supply a natural explanation of the mystery?"
"Should you prefer to search for it in that malefic region which is the abiding-place of nervous dyspepsia?"
"How could—"
"Acute nervous dyspepsia, complicated by a series of sittings under the rose, might eat away the most brazen self-confidence. That's as certain as that I wear whiskers and you don't. Shall we do an addition sum? Shall we add Chichester's discovery of secret lapses in his worshiped rector's life, to the nervous dyspepsia and the sittings? Shall we do that?"
"And Lady Sophia?"
"There's a sunflower type of woman. The rising sun can't escape her inevitable worship."
"The change in Harding may be a natural one. But there is something portentous in the change in Chichester," said Malling. "You know I'm a rather cool hand, and certainly not inclined to easy credulity. But there's something about Chichester which—well, Professor, I'll make a confession to you that isn't a pleasant one for any man to make. There's something about Chichester which shakes my nerves."
"And you haven't got nervous dyspepsia?"
"Should I be even a meliorist—as I am—if I had?"