The clergyman, who had just conducted to the platform an elderly
professor in a shabby frock coat, followed by three well-washed
children, each of whom carried a concertina, now returned and sat down
beside a middle-aged lady, who made herself conspicuous by using a gold
framed eyeglass so as to convey an impression that she was an
exceedingly keen observer.

"It is fortunate that the evening is so fine," said the clergyman to
her.

"Yes, is it not, Mr. Lind?"

"My throat is always affected by bad weather, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. I
shall be so handicapped by the inevitable comparison of my elocution
with yours, that I am glad the weather is favorable to me, though the
comparison is not."

"No," said Mrs. Fairfax, with decision. "I am not in the least an
orator. I can repeat a poem: that is all. Oh! I hope I have not broken
my glasses." They had slipped from her nose to the floor. Conolly picked
them up and straightened them with one turn of his fingers.

"No harm done, madam," said he, with a certain elocutionary correctness,
and rather in the strong voice of the workshop than the subdued one of
the drawing-room, handing the glasses to her ceremoniously as he spoke.

"Thank you. You are very kind, very kind indeed."

Conolly bowed, and turned again toward the other group.