“Well, leave it till it gets cooler. Don’t drink it with a spoon—you’ll be pouring it into your saucer next. George, what are your letters about today?”
“Income tax mostly—and there’s Mr. Green writing again about a Choral Celebration.”
“Well, you must be firm with him and tell him we can’t possibly have one. I told you what it would be, engaging an organist who’s used to such things—they won’t give them up.”
“I thought it might be possible to arrange it once a month, at an hour when it won’t interfere with Matins.”
“Nonsense, dear. The boys’ voices could never manage it and the men would go on strike.”
“They’re becoming fairly general, you know, even in country churches.”
“Well, I think it’s a pity. I’ve always distrusted anything that tends to make religion emotional.”
“I can’t understand anyone’s emotions—at least voluptuous emotions—being stirred by anything our choir could do.”
“George!—‘voluptuous’”—a violent shake of the head—“pas devant les enfants. Who’s your cheque from?”
“Dr. Mount. He’s very generously subscribing to the Maternity Fund. He says ‘I feel I’ve got a duty to Leasan as well as Vinehall, as I have patients in both parishes.’”