"She delights in motoring."
"Well," said the angry man, "you needn't be so conceited about it. You are not the only person with an aged mother. I have a mother too."
We switched round to this new centre of surprise. It was more incredible that this man should have a mother even than the Archdeacon. No one had ever suspected him of anything so extreme, for he had a long white beard and hobbled with a stick.
"And how old may your mother be?" the Archdeacon inquired.
"My mother is ninety-two."
"And is she well and hearty?"
"My mother," he replied, "is in rude health—or, as you would say, full of beans."
The Archdeacon made a deprecatory movement, repudiating the metaphor.
"She not only motors," the layman pursued, "but she can walk. Can your mother walk?"
"I am sorry to say," said the Archdeacon, "that my mother has to be helped a good deal."