but one of the most eloquent preachers in "the American branch of the
English establishment," as Sir Robert called the Episcopalian communion.

It amused Mr. Ketchum not a little to see the way in which the baronet
conducted his devotions,--his preliminary prayer in his silk hat, from
which streamed a halo of side-whiskers, the heartiness with which he
joined in the service, especially the way in which, avoiding all the
compromises the male American practises in prayer-time (such as bending
forward a little, or leaning back pensively with the hand shading the
face), he plumped squarely down on his knees, turned up a pair of shoes
half as long as his very respectable, tightly-rolled umbrella, and made
his responses in a clear, audible voice, like an honest gentleman and a
miserable sinner.

It did not escape Mr. Ketchum's keen eyes, either, that although Sir
Robert contributed a five-dollar bill to the offertory, he first rolled it
up into a tiny, unrecognizable wad before dropping it into the alms-basin.
The service over, Sir Robert and the eminent divine were made acquainted.
The latter said he would call as soon as he could snatch a moment, and Sir
Robert, his hands folded behind his back, holding his hat and gloves, made
the rounds of the church, inspecting every bit of carving, frescoing,
glass, and brass, and making the most intelligent criticisms upon what he
saw to Miss Noel in a whisper. Mrs. Sykes sat still in the pew, fuming at
being "let in for a charity sermon," for some inexplicable reason, seeing
she had given nothing to the charity. Miss Noel was stopped at the door by
no less a person than Captain Kendall, who had suddenly discovered that he
had a great-aunt living in Kalsing, whom he must see, and now stood there
saying, "Where is Miss Ethel? How is it that you are here without her? I
hope she is quite well."