“Convenient little place you’ve got here,” he remarked—“better for a single man than that barrack of a Rectory.”
“Oh, I could never have lived in the Rectory. I wonder you manage to live in yours.”
George muttered something indistinct about private means.
“It’s difficult enough to live here,” continued Luce—“I couldn’t do it if it wasn’t for what people give me.”
“Are your parishioners generous?”
“I think they are, considering they’re mostly poor people. The Pannells across the road often send me over some of their Sunday dinner in a covered dish.”
George was speechless.
“And I once found a hamper in the road outside the gate. But after I’d thanked God and eaten half a fowl and drunk a bottle of claret, I found it had dropped off the carrier’s cart and there was no end of a fuss.”
“Er—er—hum.”
There was a knock at the outer door, and before Luce could say “Come in,” the door of the study opened and a small boy stuck his head in.