Jack. Poor Ernest! He had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow.

Chasuble. Very sad indeed. Were you with him at the end?

Jack. No. He died abroad; in Paris, in fact. I had a telegram
last night from the manager of the Grand Hotel.

Chasuble. Was the cause of death mentioned?

Jack. A severe chill, it seems.

Miss Prism. As a man sows, so shall he reap.

Chasuble. [Raising his hand.] Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity!
None of us are perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to
draughts. Will the interment take place here?

Jack. No. He seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in
Paris.

Chasuble. In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points
to any very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt
wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic
affliction next Sunday. [Jack presses his hand convulsively.] My
sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted
to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case,
distressing. [All sigh.] I have preached it at harvest
celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation
and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the Cathedral,
as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the Prevention of