[Here we should observe that while Mrs Polsue had a trick of sniffing that suggested a chronic cold in the head, Farmer Best suffered from an equally chronic obstruction of the respiratory organs, or (as he preferred to call them) his pipes.  As from time to time he essayed to clear one or another of these, the resultant noise, always explosive, resembled the snort of a bullock or the klock of a strangulated suction-pump.  With these interjections Mrs Polsue on the one hand, Farmer Best on the other, punctuated the following dialogue.  And this embarrassed the company, which, obliged in politeness to attribute them to purely physical causes, could not but own inwardly that they might be mistaken for the comments—­and highly expressive ones—­of mutual disapprobation.]

“Danging it don’t answer my question—­nor banging it,” persisted Mrs Polsue.  “I want to know more about this Association, and where we come in. . . .  Just now, Mrs Steele was talking about a District Secretary and local distributors—­which looks to me as if the whole business was cut-and-dried.”

“There’s nothing cut an’ dried about me, ma’am.”  Farmer Best’s sharp little eyes twinkled, and he chuckled obesely.

“Again Mrs Polsue has the right of it,” answered the Vicar.  “Perhaps I should have explained at the beginning that this War, coming upon us so suddenly, has taken the S.S.F.A. somewhat at unawares, in Cornwall at any rate.  The machinery exists—­in skeleton; but there still wants the personnel to work it.  In our District, for instance—­”

“District?” snapped Mrs Polsue.  “What’s a District?”

The Vicar pulled a wry face.  “The Districts at present correspond with the Deaneries in the diocese.”

“O-oh, indeed?  Ha!”

“There is worse to come, Mrs Polsue.”  He laughed frankly.  “You asked, ‘Who are the local distributors?’ A present rule of the Association—­which I beg you to believe that I regret—­provides for two agents in each parish, to report and advise on cases:  the Parson, and one of the Guardians.”

“—­And that’s me, ma’am. Honk!” added Farmer Best.  “I’m what Parson called the skelliton of the machinery.”  He wound up with a wink at the company, and a wheezy laugh.

“You may titter, all of you!” Mrs Polsue glared about her.  “But if ever there was hole-and-corner sectarianism in this world—­And this is what we’ve come to listen to!”

“You han’t done much listenin’ up to now, ma’am.”

“Forgive me,” Mrs Steele interposed, as Dr Mant looked at his watch.  “I don’t know much about rules of the chair; but I really think you are all out of order.  We are not yet discussing the Association or its rules, but whether or not we shall form a Committee to look after these poor people until something better is done for them.  We in this room, at all events, belong to very different denominations.  I—­I hope we meet only as Christians.”