Sir," said Mrs. Hinijer. "But might I make so bold as to speak to you for a moment?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Hinijer," said the Vicar, little dreaming of the blow that was coming. He held a letter in his hand, a very strange and disagreeable letter from his Bishop, a letter that irritated and distressed him, criticising in the strongest language the guests he chose to entertain in his own house. Only a popular bishop living in a democratic age, a bishop who was still half a pedagogue, could have written such a letter.
Mrs. Hinijer coughed behind her hand and struggled with some respiratory disorganisation. The Vicar felt apprehensive. Usually in their interviews he was the most disconcerted. Invariably so when the interview ended.
"Well?" he said.
"May I make so bold, Sir, as to arst when Mr. Angel is a-going?" (Cough.)
The Vicar started. "To ask when Mr. Angel is going?" he repeated slowly to gain time. "Another!"
"I'm sorry, Sir. But I've been used to waitin' on gentlefolks, Sir; and you'd hardly imagine how it feels quite to wait on such as 'im."
"Such as… 'im! Do I understand you, Mrs. Hinijer, that you don't like Mr. Angel?"
"You see, Sir, before I came to you, Sir, I was at Lord Dundoller's seventeen years, and you, Sir—if you will excuse me—are a perfect gentleman yourself, Sir—though in the Church. And then.…"
"Dear, dear!" said the Vicar. "And don't you regard Mr. Angel as a gentleman?"
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