Mark abandoned the problem of Esther in the pleasure of meeting the Reverend Oliver Dorward, who arrived one afternoon at the Vicarage with a large turbot for Mrs. Ogilvie, and six Flemish candlesticks for the Vicar, announcing that he wanted to stay a week before being inducted to the living of Green Lanes in the County of Southampton, to which he had recently been presented by Lord Chatsea.  Mark liked him from the first moment he saw him pacing the Vicarage garden in a soutane, buckled shoes, and beaver hat, and he could not understand why Mr. Ogilvie, who had often laughed about Dorward’s eccentricity, should now that he had an opportunity of enjoying it once more be so cross about his friend’s arrival and so ready to hand him over to Mark to be entertained.

“Just like Ogilvie,” said Dorward confidentially, when he and Mark went for a walk on the afternoon of his arrival.  “He wants spiking up.  They get very slack and selfish, these country clergy.  Time he gave up Meade Cantorum.  He’s been here nearly ten years.  Too long, nine years too long.  Hasn’t been to his duties since Easter.  Scandalous, you know.  I asked him, as soon as I’d explained to the cook about the turbot, when he went last, and he was bored.  Nice old pussy cat, the mother.  Hullo, is that the Angelus?  Damn, I knelt on a thistle.”

“It isn’t the Angelus,” said Mark quietly.  “It’s the bell on that cow.”

But Mr. Dorward had finished his devotion before he answered.

“I was half way through before you told me.  You should have spoken sooner.”

“Well, I spoke as soon as I could.”

“Very cunning of Satan,” said Dorward meditatively.  “Induced a cow to simulate the Angelus, and planted a thistle just where I was bound to kneel.  Cunning.  Cunning.  Very cunning.  I must go back now and confess to Ogilvie.  Good example.  Wait a minute, I’ll confess to-morrow before Morning Prayer.  Very good for Ogilvie’s congregation.  They’re stuffy, very stuffy.  It’ll shake them.  It’ll shake Ogilvie too.  Are you staying here to-night?”

“No, I shall bicycle back to Slowbridge and bicycle over to Mass to-morrow.”

“Ridiculous.  Stay the night.  Didn’t Ogilvie invite you?”

Mark shook his head.

“Scandalous lack of hospitality.  They’re all alike these country clergy.  I’m tired of this walk.  Let’s go back and look after the turbot.  Are you a good cook?”

“I can boil eggs and that sort of thing,” said Mark.

“What sort of things?  An egg is unique.  There’s nothing like an egg.  Will you serve my Mass on Monday?  Saying Mass for Napoleon on Monday.”

“For whom?” Mark exclaimed.

“Napoleon, with a special intention for the conversion of the present government in France.  Last Monday I said a Mass for Shakespeare, with a special intention for an improvement in contemporary verse.”

Mark supposed that Mr. Dorward must be joking, and his expression must have told as much to the priest, who murmured: