"I should hope, Mr. Truepenny, that there is good preaching everywhere; that is, if persons are only disposed to listen to it." Mr. Truepenny—his eye still on his boot—bowed. "I hope," said I, "you will accompany us to church?"
"What! I?" cried the man, really alarmed.
"To be sure: why not?" said Fred, coming into the room. "And then, Tom, we'll take a walk—Lotty isn't equal to the fatigue"—how did he know that?—"and then we'll all dine, and comfortably close the day together."
"Well, I—I—I've no objection," said Mr. Truepenny; as though desperately making up his mind to endure the worst.
"A most admirable preacher, I'm told. Has preached before his Gracious Majesty, when Prince Regent," said Fred.
"Indeed?" said Mr. Truepenny, as if he wished to be astonished.
"A great favourite at Brighton; he's so extremely mild and well-bred. Touches upon the pomps and vanities of this wicked world—and scourges the miserable sinners who keep carriages—gently, tenderly. For all the world as if with a bunch of peacock's feathers you'd dust so many images of Dresden China."
"That's lucky," said Mr. Truepenny.
"Why lucky?" I asked—for there was something in the man's manner.
"I meant to say," he stammered, "that there are times when one doesn't like—like one's sins to be—bullied—that is, not at the sea-side."