"Quite right, Tom," said Fred, who I could see was helping him out. "Very well in one's own parish church, but"—
"We shall be too late," said I, and I ran from the room; and in a minute—never in all my life did I put my bonnet on so quick—in a minute I was ready.
The church was extremely full—as we afterwards found—for the season. Frederick was particularly serious; and for Mr. Truepenny, if he'd been listening to his own condemned sermon, he couldn't have been more solemn. It was odd, too, I thought, the glances he now and then cast towards me. And particularly when the clergyman said—and he seemed, I really did think for the minute, as though he was looking right into our pew, when he said—"Thou shalt do no murder"—at the very words, Mr. Truepenny let his prayer-book slip, and made such a start to catch it, that he drew all eyes upon us. I saw Frederick colour scarlet, and bite his lips as he glanced at his friend. At last the service was over, and we got away.
"A very nice sermon," said Mr. Truepenny, trying to say something.
"Very soothing," I added; for I knew he was half-asleep all the time.
"Yes; that's it," said he: "but that's what I like, when I come to a watering-place. Something quiet, something to think over."
Well we returned to the inn; and somehow we got through the day. I don't know how late Mr. Truepenny would have sat; but, for all Fred's nods and winks, I was determined to sit him out. At last,—it was nearly twelve—at last he went away.
"We shall meet in the morning," said Fred to him.
"Of—of course," said Mr. Truepenny; and then with the awkwardest bow in the world, he left me and Fred together.
"We'd better go to bed," said Fred. "Isn't it late?"