LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM
"The fact is," said Lewisham slowly and looking at his boot toes, "I must be doing something while I am getting my degree."
The assistant whistled softly.
"Might get you a visiting job, perhaps," said Mr. Blendershin speculatively. "Just read me those items again, Binks." He listened attentively. "Objects to religious teaching!— Eh?" He stopped the reading by a gesture. "That's nonsense. You can't have everything, you know. Scratch that out. You won't get a place in any middle-class school in England if you object to religious teaching. It's the mothers—bless 'em! Say nothing about it. Don't believe—who does? There's hundreds like you, you know—hundreds. Parsons—all sorts. Say nothing about it———"
"But if I'm asked?"
"Church of England. Every man in this country who has not dissented belongs to the Church of England. It'll be hard enough to get you anything without that."
"But—" said Mr. Lewisham. "It's lying."
"Legal fiction," said Mr. Blendershin. "Every one understands. If you don't do that, my dear chap, we can't do anything for you. It's journalism, or London docks. Well, considering your experience,—say docks."
Lewisham's face flushed irregularly. He did not answer. He scowled and tugged at the still by no means ample moustache.
"Compromise, you know," said Mr. Blendershin, watching him kindly. "Compromise."
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