``In these days of rapid and convenient travel,'' said
Clovis, who was dispersing a colony of green-fly with
visitations of cigarette smoke, ``to come from Leighton
Buzzard does not necessarily denote any great strength of
character. It might only mean mere restlessness. Now if he
had left it under a cloud, or as a protest against the
incurable and heartless frivolity of its inhabitants, that
would tell us something about the man and his mission in
life.''
``What does he do?'' pursued Mrs. Troyle magisterially.
``He edits the _Cathedral Monthly_,'' said her hostess,
``and he's enormously learned about memorial brasses and
transepts and the influence of Byzantine worship on modern
liturgy, and all those sort of things. Perhaps he is just a
little bit heavy and immersed in one range of subjects, but
it takes all sorts to make a good house-party, you know.
You don't find him _too_ dull, do you?''
``Dulness I could overlook,'' said the aunt of Clovis:
``what I cannot forgive is his making love to my maid.''
``My dear Mrs. Troyle,'' gasped the hostess, ``what an
extraordinary idea! I assure you Mr.
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