"Do you mean to say," someone inquired--an equally elderly member--almost
with anger, certainly with a kind of outraged surprise, "that you have a
mother still living?"

"Of course I have," said the Man of God. "My mother is not only living but
is in the pink of condition."

"And how old is she?" the questioner continued.

"She is ninety-one," said the Archdeacon proudly.

Most of us looked at him with wonder and respect--even a touch of awe.

"And still motoring!" I commented.

"She delights in motoring."

"Well," said the angry man, "you needn't be so conceited about it. You are
not the only person with an aged mother. I have a mother too."

We switched round to this new centre of surprise. It was more incredible
that this man should have a mother even than the Archdeacon. No one had
ever suspected him of anything so extreme, for he had a long white beard
and hobbled with a stick.

"And how old may your mother be?" the Archdeacon inquired.

"My mother is ninety-two."

"And is she well and hearty?"