“Nothing to laugh at.  Nothing to laugh at.”

“No, of course not,” said Mark feeling abashed.  “But I’m afraid I shouldn’t be able to serve you.  I’ve never had any practice.”

“Perfectly easy.  Perfectly easy.  I’ll give you a book when we get back.”

Mark bicycled home that afternoon with a tall thin volume called Ritual Notes, so tall that when it was in his pocket he could feel it digging him in the ribs every time he was riding up the least slope.  That night in his bedroom he practised with the help of the wash-stand and its accessories the technique of serving at Low Mass, and in his enthusiasm he bicycled over to Meade Cantorum in time to attend both the Low Mass at seven said by Mr. Dorward and the Low Mass at eight said by Mr. Ogilvie.  He was able to detect mistakes that were made by the village boys who served that Sunday morning, and he vowed to himself that the Monday Mass for the Emperor Napoleon should not be disfigured by such inaccuracy or clumsiness.  He declined the usual invitation to stay to supper after Evening Prayer that he might have time to make perfection more perfect in the seclusion of his own room, and when he set out about six o’clock of a sun-drowsed morning in early August, apart from a faint anxiety about the Lavabo, he felt secure of his accomplishment.  It was only when he reached the church that he remembered he had made no arrangement about borrowing a cassock or a cotta, an omission that in the mood of grand seriousness in which he had undertaken his responsibility seemed nothing less than abominable.  He did not like to go to the Vicarage and worry Mr. Ogilvie who could scarcely fail to be amused, even contemptuously amused at such an ineffective beginning.  Besides, ever since Mr. Dorward’s arrival the Vicar had been slightly irritable.

While Mark was wondering what was the best thing to do, Miss Hatchett, a pious old maid who spent her nights in patience and sleep, her days in worship and weeding, came hurrying down the churchyard path.

“I am not late, am I?” she exclaimed.  “I never heard the bell.  I was so engrossed in pulling out one of those dreadful sow-thistles that when my maid came running out and said ’Oh, Miss Hatchett, it’s gone the five to, you’ll be late,’ I just ran, and now I’ve brought my trowel and left my prayer book on the path. . . .”

“I’m just going to ring the bell now,” said Mark, in whom the horror of another omission had been rapidly succeeded by an almost unnatural composure.

“Oh, what a relief,” Miss Hatchett sighed.  “Are you sure I shall have time to get my breath, for I know Mr. Ogilvie would dislike to hear me panting in church?”

“Mr. Ogilvie isn’t saying Mass this morning.”

“Not saying Mass?” repeated the old maid in such a dejected tone of voice that, when a small cloud passed over the face of the sun, it seemed as if the natural scene desired to accord with the chill cast upon her spirit by Mark’s announcement.