“Oh!” said the archdeacon thoughtfully. The Homfrays were his very good friends, but of the county families round Claversham they were reckoned the fastest and most frivolous. And he sagely suspected that a man in Lindo’s delicate position might be wiser if he chose other companions. “Lindo seems to see a good deal of the Hammonds,” he remarked after a pause.
“Yes,” said Clode. “It is very natural.”
“Oh, very natural,” the archdeacon hastened to say; but his tone clearly expressed the opinion that “toujours Hammonds” was not a good bill of fare for the rector of Claversham. “Very natural, of course. Only,” he continued, taking courage, for he really liked the rector, “you have had some experience here, and I think it would be well if you were to give him a hint not to be too exclusive. A town rector must not be too exclusive. It does not do.”
“No,” said Clode.
“It is different in the country, of course. And then there is Mr. Bonamy. He is unpleasant, I know, and yet he is honest after a fashion. Lindo must beware of getting across with him. He has done nothing about the sheep yet, has he?”
“No.”
“Well, do not let him, if you can help it. You are not urging him on in that, are you?”
“On the contrary,” the curate answered rather warmly, “I have all through told him that I would not express an opinion on it. If anything, I have discouraged him in the matter.”
“Well, I hope he will let it drop now. I hope he will let it drop.”
They parted then, and the archdeacon, sagely revolving in his mind the evils of exclusiveness, strolled back to the hotel where he put up his horses. On his way, casting his eye down the wide, quiet street, with its old-fashioned houses on this side and that, he espied Mr. Bonamy’s tall spare figure approaching, and he purposely passed the inn and went to meet him. As a county magnate the archdeacon could afford to know Mr. Bonamy, and even to be friendly with him. I am not sure, indeed, that he had not a sneaking liking and respect for the rugged, snappish, self-made man.