“It has always failed,” said Mrs. Gresley, with subdued passion, “and it will fail again.  I heard you tell Mrs. Loftus that you would never let Hester publish another book like the Idyll.  But though you say this one is worse, you won’t be able to stop her.  You will see when she comes back that she will pack up the parcel and send it back to the publishers, whatever you may say.”

The young couple were so absorbed in their conversation that they had not observed the approach of a tall, clerical figure whom the parlor-maid was escorting towards them.

“I saw you through the window, and I said I would join you in the garden,” said Archdeacon Thursby, majestically.  “I have been lunching with the Pratts.  They naturally wished to hear the details of the lamented death of our mutual friend, Lord Newhaven.”

Archdeacon Thursby was the clergyman who had been selected, as a friend of Lady Newhaven’s, to break to her her husband’s death.

“It seems,” he added, “that a Miss West, who was at the Abbey at the time, is an intimate friend of the Pratts.”

Mrs. Gresley slipped away to order tea, the silver teapot, etc.

The Archdeacon was a friend of Mr. Gresley’s.  Mr. Gresley had not many friends among the clergy, possibly because he always attributed the popularity of any of his brethren to a laxity of principle on their part, or their success, if they did succeed, to the peculiarly easy circumstances in which they were placed.  But he greatly admired the Archdeacon, and made no secret of the fact that, in his opinion, he ought to have been the Bishop of the diocese.

A long conversation now ensued on clerical matters, and Mr. Gresley’s drooping spirits revived under a refreshing douche of compliments on “Modern Dissent.”

The idea flashed across his mind of asking the Archdeacon’s advice regarding Hester’s book.  His opinion carried weight.  His remarks on “Modern Dissent” showed how clear, how statesmanlike his judgment was.  Mr. Gresley decided to lay the matter before him, and to consult him as to his responsibility in the matter.  The Archdeacon did not know Hester.  He did not know—­for he lived at a distance of several miles—­that Mr. Gresley had a sister who had written a book.

Mr. Gresley did not wish him to become aware of this last fact, for we all keep our domestic skeletons in their cupboards, so he placed a hypothetical case before his friend.

Supposing some one he knew, a person for whose actions he felt himself partly responsible, had written a most unwise letter, and this letter, by no fault of Mr. Gresley’s, had fallen into his hands and been read by him.  What was he, Mr. Gresley, to do?  The letter, if posted, would certainly get the writer into trouble, and would cause acute humiliation to the writer’s family.  What would the Archdeacon do, in his place?

Mr. Gresley did not perceive that the hypothetical case was not “on all fours” with the real one.  His first impulse had been to gain the opinion of an expert without disclosing family dissensions.  Did some unconscious secondary motive impel him to shape the case so that only one verdict was probable?