was partitioned off with polished marble and ornamental grills. In the
rear, guarded by the desks and flanked by the compartments of various
subordinates, was the president's private sanctum, and into this holy of
holies Mr. Plimpton led the way with the simple, unassuming genial air of
the high priest of modern finance who understands men. The room was
eloquent almost to affectation of the system and order of great business,
inasmuch as it betrayed not the least sign of a workshop. On the dark
oak desk were two leather-bound books and a polished telephone. The
walls were panelled, there was a stone fireplace with andirons set, a
deep carpet spread over the tessellated floor, and three leather-padded
armchairs, one of which Mr. Plimpton hospitably drew forward for the
rector. He then produced a box of cigars.

"You don't smoke, Mr. Hodder. I always forget. That's the way you
manage to keep yourself in such good shape." He drew out a gold match
box and seated himself with an air of gusto opposite his guest. "And you
haven't had a vacation, they tell me."

"On the contrary," said the rector, "McCrae has taken the services all
summer."

"But you've been in the city!" Mr. Plimpton exclaimed, puffing at his
cigar.

"Yes, I've been in the city."

"Well, well, I'll bet you haven't been idle. Just between us, as
friends, Mr. Hodder, I've often wondered if you didn't work too hard
--there's such a thing as being too conscientious, you know. And I've
an idea that the rest of the vestry think so. Mr. Parr, for instance.