The congregation clumped out of church, and stood about the churchyard in scattered groups of threes and fours. Coast began to collect his music with trembling fingers. His head ached intolerably, and he laboured under a strange delusion that the whole village was laughing at him. Every one knew that he had urged the continuance of the strike. Every one would know soon enough that the vicar sent him insulting notes across the choir stalls.
The sexton began to extinguish the candles on the altar, but Mrs. Robson still sat in her pew, gazing dreamily before her.
Coast had mislaid the manuscript page of music that fitted in to his psalter, containing the chants for festival psalms. Striking a match he groped among the shadows on the floor.
"Mr. Coast," the vicar's dry voice summoned him from below the seat.
He sat up suddenly, knocking his already aching head on the side of the keyboard.
"Well?"
The vicar was annoyed. "When I send you a note with a suggestion like that, Mr. Coast, there is really no need to caricature my criticism—No? That hymn, that last hymn, it was disgraceful—really quite spoilt, yes, quite spoilt!"
"You asked to have it slow. I gave you what you asked," snapped Coast, shutting up the keyboard with a bang.
"I don't think that is quite the spirit—not quite the spirit—for you to adopt, Mr. Coast. Irreverent work sets a bad example."
"Well, I don't think there was any need for you to use my pupils to pass your instructions along. At least you might have folded the paper. Half the choir were sniggering—making a fool of me before the boys and then expect the discipline of the school to be good."