He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there is a slab of iron which says in queer, long-tailed letters: Orate p. annema Jhone Coline. The children always called it Panama Corner.
The Archbishop moved slowly about the little church, peering at the old memorial tablets and the new glass windows. The Lady who practises the organ began to pull out stops and rustle hymnbooks behind the screen.
‘I hope she’ll do all the soft lacey tunes—like treacle on porridge,’ said Una.
‘I like the trumpety ones best,’ said Dan. ‘Oh, look at Wilfrid! He’s trying to shut the altar gates!’
‘Tell him he mustn’t,’ said Puck, quite seriously.
‘He can’t, anyhow,’ Dan muttered, and tiptoed out of Panama Corner while the Archbishop patted and patted at the carved gates that always sprang open again beneath his hand.
‘That’s no use, sir,’ Dan whispered. ‘Old Mr. Kidbrooke says altar-gates are just the one pair of gates which no man can shut. He made ’em so himself.’
The Archbishop’s blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that he knew all about it.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Dan stammered—very angry with Puck.
‘Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.’ The Archbishop smiled, and crossed to Panama Corner, where Una dragged up a certain padded arm-chair for him to sit on.