It seemed as if some
unseen fingers were alternately pinching the flabby flesh of his
cheeks, then as swiftly letting it go.
Mr. Windle made a mental calculation, delivering his estimation of
the number with a voice confident of his accuracy.
"Sixty," he said. "Not less--possibly more."
"That will take a lot of wine."
"There's plenty in that cupboard," said Mr. Windle.
The gentle rector reverently opened the cupboard and examined it.
"Oh yes; there is enough," he said. He held up a black bottle to the
light, and blinked at it short-sightedly. "I--I only wanted to make
sure," he added; "it is apt to make one somewhat apprehensive, when
one is officiating in a strange church--apprehensive, if you
understand what I mean, of any hitch in the service."
"Quite so," said Mr. Windle, sympathetically. He extracted a small,
white, potash throat lozenge from the pocket of his waistcoat, and
placed it on his tongue. In another twenty-five minutes from that
moment he would be reading the lessons. The lozenge would be
dissolved and swallowed by that time, and the beneficial effect upon
his throat complete when he was ready to begin.
"The bishop is holding early Communion in Maidstone this morning,"
he said, when the lozenge had settled into its customary place in
his mouth.
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