“Well, plant nothing but hollyhocks there,—­as many as you can cram in.  We must have a blaze of colour to contrast with those dark yews.  See to the jessamine and passion-flowers by the porch; and there is a ‘Gloire’ rose near the drawing-room window that wants cutting back a bit.”  He moved a step or two, then again turned:  “I shall want you later on in the orchard,—­the grass there needs attending to.”

A slow grin pervaded Bainton’s countenance.

“Ye minds me of the ’Oly Scripter, Passon, ye does reely now!” he said—­“Wi’ all yer different orders an’ idees, y’are behavin’ to me like the very moral o’ the livin’ Wurrd!”

Walden looked amused.

“How do you make that out?”

“Easy enough, sir,—­’The Scripter moveth us in sun’ry places’!  Hor!- hor!-hor!—­“and Bainton burst into a hoarse chuckle of mirth, entirely delighted with his own witticism, and walked off, not waiting to see whether its effect on his master was one of offence or appreciation.  He was pretty sure of his ground, however, for he left John Walden laughing, a laugh that irradiated his face with some of the sunshine stored up in his mind.  And the sparkle of mirth still lingered in his eyes as, crossing the lawn and passing the seat where the volume of Epictetus lay, now gratuitously decorated by a couple of pale pink shell-like petals dropped from the apple-blossoms above it, he entered his house, and proceeding to his study sat down and wrote the following brief epistle: 

“The Reverend John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and in reply to his note begs to say that, as the church is always open and free, Sir Morton and his friends can ‘inspect’ it at any time provided no service is in progress.”

Putting this in an envelope, he sealed and stamped it.  It should go by post, and Sir Morton would receive it next morning.  There was no need for a ‘special messenger,’ either in the person of Bob Keeley, or in the authorised Puck of the Post Office Messenger-service.

“For there is not the slightest hurry,” he said to himself:  “It will not hurt Sir Morton to be kept waiting.  On the contrary, it will do him good.  He had it all his own way in this parish before I came,—­ but now for the past ten years he has known what it is to ’kick against the pricks’ of legitimate Church authority.  Legitimate Church authority is a fine thing!  Half the Churchmen in the world don’t use it, and a goodly portion of the other half misuse it.  But when you’ve got a bumptious, purse-proud, self-satisfied old county snob like Sir Morton Pippitt to deal with, the pressure of the iron hand should be distinctly exercised under the velvet glove!”