‘All my wonder is,’ observed Mrs. Hackit, ’how the Bartons make both ends meet.  You may depend on it, she’s got nothing to give ’em; for I understand as he’s been having money from some clergy charity.  They said at fust as she stuffed Mr. Barton wi’ notions about her writing to the Chancellor an’ her fine friends, to give him a living.  Howiver, I don’t know what’s true an’ what’s false.  Mr. Barton keeps away from our house now, for I gave him a bit o’ my mind one day.  Maybe he’s ashamed of himself.  He seems to me to look dreadful thin an’ harassed of a Sunday.’

’O, he must be aware he’s getting into bad odour everywhere.  The clergy are quite disgusted with his folly.  They say Carpe would be glad to get Barton out of the curacy if he could; but he can’t do that without coming to Shepperton himself, as Barton’s a licensed curate; and he wouldn’t like that, I suppose.’

At this moment Mrs. Patten showed signs of uneasiness, which recalled Mr. Pilgrim to professional attentions; and Mrs. Hackit, observing that it was Thursday, and she must see after the butter, said good-bye, promising to look in again soon, and bring her knitting.

This Thursday, by the by, is the first in the month—­the day on which the Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage; and as the Rev. Amos Barton has reasons for not attending, he will very likely be a subject of conversation amongst his clerical brethren Suppose we go there, and hear whether Mr. Pilgrim has reported their opinion correctly.

There is not a numerous party today, for it is a season of sore throats and catarrhs; so that the exegetical and theological discussions, which are the preliminary of dining, have not been quite so spirited as usual; and although a question relative to the Epistle of Jude has not been quite cleared up, the striking of six by the church clock, and the simultaneous announcement of dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be importunate.

Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a comfortable dining-room, where the closely-drawn red curtains glow with the double light of fire and candle, where glass and silver are glittering on the pure damask, and a soup-tureen gives a hint of the fragrance that will presently rush out to inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by the delicate visitation of atoms, for the keen gusto of ampler contact!  Especially if you have confidence in the dinner-giving capacity of your host—­if you know that he is not a man who entertains grovelling views of eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction of hunger and thirst, and, dead to all the finer influences of the palate, expects his guest to be brilliant on ill-flavoured gravies and the cheapest Marsala.  Mr. Ely was particularly worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryon had probably contributed quite as much as the central situation of Milby to the selection of his house as a clerical rendezvous.  He looks particularly graceful at the head of his table, and, indeed, on all occasions where he acts as president or moderator:  he is a man who seems to listen well, and is an excellent amalgam of dissimilar ingredients.