Though even there," added the senior churchwarden, with momentary
descent towards the plane of human nature, "nobody cares to have it
hinted publicly across the vestry table that one has chosen to collect
from the left side for the express purpose of artfully passing over
one's own family."

"The children have always had their three-penny-bits ready waiting in
their hands," explained Mrs. Pennycoop, indignantly.

"It's the sort of thing he says merely for the sake of making a
disturbance," continued the senior churchwarden. "It's the things he
does I draw the line at."

"The things he has done, you mean, dear," laughed the little woman,
with the accent on the "has." "It is all over now, and we are going
to be rid of him. I expect, dear, if we only knew, we should find it
was his liver. You know, George, I remarked to you the first day that
he came how pasty he looked and what a singularly unpleasant mouth he
had. People can't help these things, you know, dear. One should look
upon them in the light of afflictions and be sorry for them."

"I could forgive him doing what he does if he didn't seem to enjoy
it," said the senior churchwarden. "But, as you say, dear, he is
going, and all I hope and pray is that we never see his like again."

"And you'll come with me to call upon him, George," urged kind little
Mrs. Pennycoop. "After all, he has been our vicar for three years,
and he must be feeling it, poor man--whatever he may pretend--going
away like this, knowing that everybody is glad to see the back of
him."