"You are not churchwarden," retorted her husband; "you can get away
from him. You hear him when he is in the pulpit, where, to a certain
extent, he is bound to keep his temper."

"You forget the rummage sale, George," Mrs. Pennycoop reminded him;
"to say nothing of the church decorations."

"The rummage sale," Mr. Pennycoop pointed out to her, "occurs only
once a year, and at that time your own temper, I have noticed--"

"I always try to remember I am a Christian," interrupted little Mrs.
Pennycoop. "I do not pretend to be a saint, but whatever I say I am
always sorry for it afterwards--you know I am, George."

"It's what I am saying," explained her husband. "A vicar who has
contrived in three years to make every member of his congregation hate
the very sight of a church--well, there's something wrong about it
somewhere."

Mrs. Pennycoop, gentlest of little women, laid her plump and still
pretty hands upon her husband's shoulders. "Don't think, dear, I
haven't sympathized with you. You have borne it nobly. I have
marvelled sometimes that you have been able to control yourself as you
have done, most times; the things that he has said to you."

Mr. Pennycoop had slid unconsciously into an attitude suggestive of
petrified virtue, lately discovered.

"One's own poor self," observed Mr. Pennycoop, in accents of proud
humility--"insults that are merely personal one can put up with.