THE BATTLE OF THE MOTHERS.
We were sitting in the smoking-room when the Venerable Archdeacon entered. He had been so long absent that we asked him the reason.
Had he been ill?
Ill? Not he. He never was better in his life. He had merely been on a motor tour with his mother.
"Do you mean to say," someone inquired—an equally elderly member—almost with anger, certainly with a kind of outraged surprise, "that you have a mother still living?"
"Of course I have," said the Man of God. "My mother is not only living but is in the pink of condition."
"And how old is she?" the questioner continued.
"She is ninety-one," said the Archdeacon proudly.
Most of us looked at him with wonder and respect—even a touch of awe.
"And still motoring!" I commented.