"Yes, you did," I said mercilessly. "You used the exact words."
He stood for a minute with his back toward me leaning over the chimney-piece. Then he turned and said:
"Listen to me. Those things which you call moral platitudes are truths. I believe them. I cling to them. They are the things I live by. They are sacred. But"
"But you see the comic side of them."
"But," he said, without taking any notice of my remark, "I hear them every day of my life and all day long. I hear them from the canon. I hear them from the other clergy who come here constantly. I hear them from the old women in the village when they want things from me. I hear them from my own lips. I never—do you understand?—I never hear anything else. I believe them. But they get to be like bed clothes, like blankets and quilts laid over my mouth and nostrils. I'm smothered by them."
He gripped me by the arm and led me across the room to the window.
"Look out," he said; "what do you see?"
I saw the village post-office, which was very nearly opposite the curate's lodgings. There were, I noticed, glass jars of sweets in the window, as well as notices about the hours of departure of the mail. Mr. Metcalf, using the eye of imagination, saw
