“We're pretty hungry,” said Mr. Meredith. “I don't know that we should have got here if we hadn't leaned up against each other as we came along. Several policemen regarded us suspiciously, but Seyton's cloth protected us.”
“It was terrible, coming up Beacon Street with an old offender like Meredith, at what he considered the dead hour of the night,” said Mr. Seyton. “I don't know what I should have done if any one had been awake to see us.”
“You shall have breakfast instantly,” said Bellingham, touching an annunciator, and awakening a distant electric titter somewhere.
Mr. Seyton came toward Lemuel, who took the young Ritualist for a Catholic priest, but was not proof against the sweet friendliness which charmed every one with him, and was soon talking at more ease than he had felt from all Bellingham's cordial intention. He was put at his host's right hand when they sat down, and Mr. Seyton was given the foot, so that they continued their talk.
“Mr. Bellingham tells me you know my friend Sewell,” said the clergyman.
Lemuel's face kindled. “Oh yes! Do you know him too?”
“Yes, I've known him a long time. He's a capital fellow, Sewell is.”
“I think he's a great preacher,” ventured Lemuel.
“Ah—well—yes? Is he? I've never heard him lecture,” said Mr. Seyton, looking down at his bread.
“I swear, Seyton,” said Meredith across the table, “when you put on that ecclesiastical superciliousness of yours, I want to cuff you.”